Your wonderful indifference is a wall
on which I strike my idiot head
in a vain attempt to emulate pain I cannot feel.
Matured masochism has me tearing myself apart
like an expected present of too much wrapping.
To want the impossibility of your respect is the force behind
the necessary suffering of watching your unpretentious
and non-accidental beauty enhance the lives of others:
an oblivion presses on my eyes like coins;
comets of pure joy ease their way through the space between
my ears and even a pocketed hand cannot crawl towards
your palms of soft vellum, holding leaves of all textures of narrative;
crisp pragmatism, moist, slightly green wonder; seasoned
reddish love with a weight of sensuality: and deep, rich browns
redolent with wisdom; each lustrous leaf speaks of life lived in myriad shades.
Your image induces thoughts in an autumnal morning sky:
burnt orange, sleepily whispering of last night’s beautiful spirited intimacies,
complemented by the tinted vignetting, creating a tingling solemnity of urban trees
in that moment when the grey-blue turns to a cotton ball shot through with the blood
of living and growing vitally.
Likewise, you are in the ice-hot gorgeousness of trees laden with their white
heavy coats keeping memories in the nuanced darkness of reminiscences.
Summers are a time of bright understated and realistic expectation
and each time you make your first appearance of any day, freshness springs to mind
with sights and sounds of renewal of joys of experience and innocence borne
of embracing possibility.
You and your grace of ages are of a life-force once encountered, never forgotten.