She is inexorable comings
of better things;
(like the laughter of children,
playing in the ashes of a stormcloud,
and She is a terrible pressure (and relief)
that fixes rivers gone astray,
turns brine to milk,
derives a brick or two of gæity
from walls of grief.
She is a holocaustic heat
which flares my dampened match,
and births a heaving heliotrope
with seceding burn of forge,
alight in writhing fire.
She is a conflagrating ring
that traces further aureoles
with bits of blinding white;
and mantle—pushing solemnly the breath—
beneath the bloodred spire.
She is an answer
to many things that never
deigned a question mark;
and pale halos of twilight
that flay pink strips from the stretch of sky;
that swear recidivistic stars
will touch the treeline once again.
but neither ray nor shade bely us:
whether argentine or aureate arcs above,
We will Love, She and i.