This is the house of Love, which has no bound nor end.


A thin strand of cloud streaks
across these sunrise words,
found walking on the wild side
like some purple braid
which binds our worlds together,
the sky’s fire smile
and a sitting fool, fumbling
for some small way
to have this say all it means,
as wooden rafters wash themselves
in gold and red, wishing
in a moment of quiet wonder
that you would see the light
we are charged to safeguard
in exchange for breath,
for a brief few hundred years
in the bosom of an old forest,
given back because beauty
is just the beating of that book
in your heart, bound always
to read itself and the rhythm
we return to.