THE LOTUS IS A METAPHOR

My,

You rose early,

Love.

And I

Play at

Catch-up.

You

Taught the game

Of the blossom and the peach, two each

The blushing peony, the bow of your lips’ speech

The hydrangea before Spring,

Green

Like your power

Edge

That blends

Death and life

Morning, night

Right or right

Like you

Like You

Like—

I know when we speak of love we speak of memory,

Like ‘echoes from across oceans.’

We name horizons like past life motions:

‘I must have known you before’ or some such haunting notion.

When I say it’s you

The earth trembles and the falling petals resemble something I once called my Truth Temple and there

Is me,

Remembered, just beside your sanctuary:

(Sister’s sunflower brighter as she leaves

Father’s deep blues upon the Queen Mary

Mother’s wilderness bonsai tree)

Me

In the world at my best

Is often what is called to the test

By your crimson eyelids rising

Each morning

You turn to me

I’m re-cognizing

My fragile lotus tips

The leaves around my hips,

And the darkness deep and rich,

This mud

Our stardust is

And you—

My,

You

Must be tired,

Love.