I use the leaves, wood, and stones of nature
as tools,
not to construct anything graspable by the hand,
or anything that could house a shivering body.
No, I borrow that which nature offers,
so that I can work, perhaps shoddily,
into form and substance
the sole figure of beauty,
of which all things that stir
eyes and blood
derive their essence.
Imperceptible to minds
coated in the smoke and grime
of daily life, yet somehow
I have been gifted
with a strange and undefinable sense.
I can feel beneath
the marrow of my skin, muscles, and bones
the finest brushes of this shy
yet gold gilded wind.
Its beauty overwhelms my every thought
with its slightest touch, and thus
I am shattered by awe,
and reborn time and time again.
I am wood turned into ethereal flame,
alive and compelled to spread
that which has stoked my being in full—
for beauty is not mine to keep,
and nonetheless,
it cannot be contained.
It is the air beneath the air.
It is the light within the light.
It is the dawn that inspires the bird
as it builds a nest
for which to give its song sensuous life.
