for all I can really do isstand herein September’s rainsavoring…soaking it all inslipping..and simplyholding on to poetryfor dear life.

for we all have our own twilights and mistsand abyssesto return to.

What you are trying to let go of...is already gone.

Scatter as a prayerescaping my lips...as orchidsblooming in clouds.

Your words... I hold them deeplike ancient skinshold wrinkles.

to be a poet meansto live with a permanent wound forever susceptibleto either the shade of the skyor someone's eyes.

wordslike mysterious mermaids come and live permanentlyin the soft sweepsand scars of my skin.

someday i will walk under the soul-blossom tree with my hand eternally woven in yours.

How....will I ever truly depict you?You’re perfect, my writing isn’t.