She was born in a perfect
moment in a garden of roses.
She was always more
North Star than lover .
She grew up in the
watch fires of the mystic .
She envoked the beauty
not given to nihilistic angels
arguing over hell .
The suns first rays
fingered their way
out onto the dusty road
where forbidden love
ambushed me and
held me through my
long season of redemption.
Grace And quietude found
me then .
In her rapt absorbtion
of prayer , She smiled .
Silent as smoke from
the woodstove.
She was the sorrow in
the moon swollen tides
but , would cry no more
tears .
My hours of creation
reaped death from
the lack of true
melodies.
Tap on my window,
knock on my door.
She is the music
of my immortal soul .
With an awkward grace
She finds me in
my shallow creek.
I can say no more.