It is as if my hands are blurring red from parting the foliage /

I do not want to clear,

but the time has come to pull the thistles out of my palms.

Blood drips like wax because of the flowers

that have not come close to my name.

Not even to speak it, nor to discover that I have a name I prefer said deeply.

A fingertip touches one delicate petal you might find in the thicket floor, and it does nothing but I am weeping.

I want to touch the cheeks of each rose,

the heart-melody of each sodden song

and be discovered.

And as I walk, increasingly aware of the anemone staring desperately into the colors I have forgotten,

there is nothing but comfort here.

The ability to be courteous and generous,

without feeling agreeable.

To be beautiful and clean,

even in the midst of nature.

To speak of things that matter,

and be silent about everything else.

To be understood though you and I are full of difference.

We have fallen in love in a place far from the world and will never go back.