If love be blind, love cannot hit the mark.

call it a little rebellion, but i will love the flowers in the mud. i will love all the wilting broken stems of their bobbing white heads. if i am alive, i am alive right now like the things that scuttle under dead leaves. i am alive like a wet bed of moss. i am alive like the tender fingers of lichen. i am building my small life in this chitin spring, in the private dark. i have my belly pressed against the earth and i have been whispering secrets to every passing ladybug. we speak worship for every new birdnest and every old and falling feather. we are going to hold hands on the floor of the forest and we are going to pray in a new tongue - the rapture of the infinitely small; the unnoticed, the marred.

I admire his strong jaw,

Once more it is April with the first light sifting through the young leaves heavy with dew making the colors remember who they are the new pink of the cinnamon tree the gilded lichens of the bamboo the shadowed bronze of the kamani and the blue day opening as the sunlight descends through it all like the return of a spirit touching without touch and unable to believe it is here and here again and awake reaching out in silence into the cool breath of the garden just risen from darkness and days of rain it is only a moment the birds fly through it calling to each other and are gone with their few notes and the flash of their flight that had vanished before we ever knew it we watch without touching any of it and we can tell ourselves only that this is April this is the morning this never happened before and we both remember it