A Natural

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.

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