This foolish wanderer
Head so far ahead of her fingers she forgets who holds her up:
This drifting errant child
Possessed of a troubling beauty like a rose on the verge of dropping its petals
In one heart-stopping shudder
She, too, has tripped and is caught for a moment
Petals already lost, mired in helpless coils
Already too far gone for salvation
A blushing, trembling prism of life
Oh, my love.
My beating, bleeding heart,
As near to me as the fluctuating convulsions of my own muscle;
My smaller self, my careless springtime child,
I am dead while you are gone from me.
And if you do not walk it,
Why should grass grow?
Why should the curling tendrils of vitality blossom
And the soil breathe the brackish joy of the woods?
Why the river flow? Why the mountain soar?
Why the Earth? Why the Sun?
Why the beat of my heart?