reach out, know touch as up and down, the span
of head to heel, thigh to shoulder, each side
with rough of bark to blossom, stone to dust,
how else but by the feel, the real, can man
press nature to his will and impel his pride
in shaping to his needs an earth which he can trust
go up, your feet will take you high above
streets and buildings to a new position
forget the old appointments, you have a more
important one with God to measure love
not by the scrupled ways of acquisition
but freely as the stars that follow and explore
while I live
my love is a hart seeking the waterfall
where he may press two lips against its crystal
depths—see how he leaps to kiss the imaged mist
that bubbles up beneath him—he staggers, kissed
my love is an alpine trail that mountains climb
above clouds and timber to heights out of time
and measure—no distance there or memory
for weak foot and tired brain—but death only
my love is a trumpet sustaining its call
to the last clear breath—listen, the interval,
out of canyon silences, on the dry wind,
the throat of night catches, its echoes are thinned
my love is a dream where childhood fell asleep
beckoned by shadows that lengthen as they creep;
now she sighs, weeps, losing her way—morning wakes
the sleeper and she smiles, her eyes are lakes
odyssey