Carolyn

In the stream of this life, the turbulent stream
A mote from top to bottom swims
being nothing in himself, and seeing only
that which is brought to his eyes

You are who you are, beautiful, bright,
awake, in this place with me, for a moment,
then gone, and now I swim in the memory
and the fantasy and the illusion and the end.

Yes, the end, of you who did not know
      there was a beginning
Whom I protected from my heart's opening

Is that how we are in this world
Alive only in the fragrance of blossoming?
Can we not also be alive in the coolness of the moonlight
Or in the richness of the soil and roots

Must we dance across the cilia of desire
and carry it as memory until we are engorged
and digested in the routine of pretending memory is fresh
and new and alive is in devotion to faded words?

You who are most worthy, and most desirable
were protected to be alive in this moment,
      and protected by me,
so that in the flow of this molten stream

the one who dives and dies and longs for
that stream to turn at his own prescription
will not carry you in with him
and far away from the here and now

I will know your scent in the moonlight
And I will know your tendrils in the loam
And I will keep the knowing of you
from the bitter breath of blossoming