in an orchard of olives, or warm rain with a soft
green-gold wind in it, or white rain
falling softly through blossoms of apples
or the wind, or wind-blown sunlight itself,
so I could hold you in my arms which are not my arms,
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so you could rest in me
the way the Branford pear, under its burden of petals,
clusters of still-wet stars,
leaned its new weight on the daylight in the park
an hour ago,
so my heels could spark a circle of white flames
about your feet,
so you could feel how the light loves you
as it wants to do. From The High Road to Taos