You plucked me from the thorns,
my name was anything but a rose,
and I was nothing like the sun.
I found you wandering, lost,
among the thistle and the lavender,
the burs atangled through your flaxen hair.
I combed it, like the tide,
finding what was awashed upon my farther shores.
Your cheek was soft and your eyes pale fire,
though their color was molten dark.
They met my gaze, which was still as limpid pools,
that are the glacial waters from moutains' depths.
Offered up this, spring eternal, slaked your thirst
as you drank drank drank deep from me, and all that I am.
Or all that will become.
And it gave you life,
and it gave me life to give it.
And you raised your face to match mine,
and you were my far horizon,
and I your coming east.
And all the other ands that might join one to two,
and yet become one again.
It was this light that flooded into me,
and illuminated all the flowers, and seeds forlorn.
Every little thing comes calling,
of that one momment,
when burning darkness fell upon an age,
when we alone in shuttered room,
when were still yet free from connection's glare,
when there was still here, and there to have.
To have and to hold, until death will us part.
So will our children will go ariding,
through the thistles and the thorns,
across the broad plains uncarved by water's touch,
towards that heavenly splendor we yearn for so much,
versed in meta we as yet do not understand,
will we yet rest in an unpromised land.
Our ghosts will wander with that calendar,
whose divisions have not yet to expression come,
when lordly sun, and mistress moon, can and will and might and are,
as once before the world was fair begun,
no longer twain to two, but become one.
So, my dear, now you must of body sleep:
the morrow's promise I've yet to keep,
that when the shadows of this night are gone
you will waken into, a brighter dawn.