gifted

you are a gift,

and in my deep gratitude 

there is longing:

when will my blue eyes 
reflect your face?

when will your touch

speak of the warmest presence?

how old we have become 
upon the thin green plane,

rarer than any jewel 

desired by blurry-eyed men,

it is the inevitability of it

all,

and our faded memory of

a truth known our first-breath's

moment.

our default: complacency,

but has our love 

ever been satisfied?

i burn with Being's immanence

like the newborn star,

terrible, but the

giver of a 

beautiful intensity.