In all the places,
winter-gray clouds reign,
chrysanthemums mourn

with an aura of sojourn,
in the wake of your eyes,
and everywhere, a flower

is your face today.
It is not in filial hands
to weed out all the pain,

but I can hold your hand
as you would hold a flower
– our footsteps ruminate

along a homely lane.
Strife is the provenance
of seeing, the maze of meaning:

moments do not reconcile –
the great scheme, like a river,
flows beneath the hearth.

Did you ever feel
or think that it is so,
in lonely evenings?

Now you need to rest and I
define you in myself, in waves
– the waves ebb next to you –

laced with an invisible green,
in privately prefigured salience.
We may not understand how

the birthday candles flicker
with such warmth – how we love
and know, and know that it is true!

Buoyancy and blow
stir a storm inside a drop
before the seaward calm ensues;

words wield a stellar flare
for aspirations worth the stride –
mine trace in you a wordless latitude…

Every time you wake,
I learn that longing has
its bold rules and odd laurels –

the great estate lives on
where meadows fill the hourglass
with butterflies and vigilance of palms.

Your love of flowers blooms
in every swarm and spring I know,
as if to coalesce, as I belong to you.

December–January 2009–2010