nor can I see the wind that lifts
these tid-bits from the ground;
and never have I touched a sunbeam
with my hand,
nor looked at sweetness like a clipping
on a board.
And if my sense perceives,
perhaps, reality,
how can I reconcile my breath
with words that do not breathe.
Why can’t I say your lips
are like the red red rose
without my mind first wondering
why I thought your lips were red?
But look! The far away hills
are blue and huge
and bouncing out against the enormous sky
they thrill.
How can I care if they are real!
What does it matter what I see
if what I see makes me feel.
And when the smell of pine trees
fills the air with tingling tunes,
and the gargling streams splash
pangs of color as they leap,
I do not long for rational explanations,
I only long to keep
the miracle of this moment
in my blood.
My dear, your lips are like
the red red rose
and feeling the warm soft knowledge
of you lying next to me
is worth much more
than all the measured facts
they call reality.
