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

But suspended,

Apparently victorious,

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?