His fitful hour, to take the measure
of earth and cloud is to take
our measure from leaf to flower

We, who have passed through many halls
and echoes, and empty doorways in skirting
walls, shall we now lament the gone stays
of an age given for the grapes of tomorrow?

The spider weaves on our dreams of rainbows
as history slinks in sullen alleys
far from the marble structures of our grief

Your hand caressing my question
limits a word and signs to another
mirrored in a still interior lake

But when blood has run cold and the sky
is ashen, who will signify the lake
and seize the image?
Every flower is knowledge of passion