somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience, your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near
your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skillfully, mysteriously) her first rose
or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;
nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the colour of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing
(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands

Lifting To Me


Under this wide open sky, where we in turn, both live and die.
Between the alleyways and city streets.
Among the open fields where wind swept plains
Catch breath and sigh.
And further still,
My eye beholds the ocean blue planet,
Fluid and moving.
Deeper into space, away,
Till only light
As faint as what I once saw as our sun’s dying eye…
I found you.
I found you drifting,
A reflection of myself.
From this far, I see you…
And lifting to me,
Like rain falling upwards.