I only intake the air from the West—
Not by the will of my selective lungs,
Like, tube and chest, a sifting drum.
No, heaven knows my head seldom strays
From facing, tracing and retracing, the path
My memory maps in the quietness
On this hillside faced westward
Across the world from where you stay.
Solace is mine in the wild violets.
In my days of pretend, your breaths are the wind
Warm upon my dreaming lashes and waiting lips;
Your touch is rustling leaves and petal kisses.
Arousing: the caress of swaying grass
And the bristle caps of humble milkweed
Caught with a tug in my hair—I recollect
Your fingertips gently tangling in my tresses.
Days grow many, forgetting last you held me,
Tossed in a storm of your own mind.
Stepping out into the shade of tall pines,
A sinking sadness swallows your affection.
Deaf to my call, your spinning compass-heart leads;
You are adrift at sea, no life in sight.
Forlorn in the night, suddenly a budding thought:
How again to love me—a lost conception.
Hear me: climb far up a hillside facing the East,
Lie in the blue-eyed grass and meadow pink,
And let us ask God to pinch together the peaks
Of my blossoming spring hill and yours,
Pulling our distant lands to meet,
Like an eager rolling wave to a lover shore.
And come meet me down in the new-formed valley.
Folded beneath our feet: the conquered westward journey
Blanketed by twists of blessed bluebonnet,
Harbingers of spring, carnations of scarlet—
Abandon your wavering compass and bouts of uncertainty,
Promise, if such a grandiose miracle brings you here to me.
ABOUT THIS POEM? FIND IT HERE : ABOUT MY POETRY