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ON THE MEADOW AND UPON THIS NIGHT OF RUIN





I know how much ruin one night of love can bring; but,

At night I try to catch a drop of dew from the meadow of

Love.  I am hopelessly addicted to my lover’s breath.



Yes, I have my own hands that sometimes brings comfort

To my worn face but it is not the embrace that increases in

Rapture as does the feel of downy hair on the back of her neck



And that touch though only lasting during one night of ruin

Is blissfully spent and has the seeming duration of eternity;

This strip of love so narrow continues coursing through me.



In the lovely night of ruin, who could fend off or divert the

Immense deluge of love whose precipitous origin took root

Long ago under the lover’s tree and upon this very meadow.



Ah, there is no caution in this night of ruin, for allowing our

Selves to feel this fever and getting entangled in the inner

Events, the inevitable result was to onrush precipitous falls.



And why call it a night of ruin?  Simply, every cycle peaks

And from that summit there is the eventual cascade into the

Gravity leveling feeling of over abundant dull mediocrity.



During this one night of ruin and upon this meadow we give

Our selves something that out weighs the heaviness of the

World, and that is the strength of renewing our self from ruin.



Yes, for this moment’s sketch, upon this meadow a laborious

Ground is prepared where we see each other in the contours of

Emotion formed during the night and as a vapor expired.