she flew low or not at all,
perched on the branches that
leaned on the wall;

she wept in the dark
under cover of night, all tears and light,
all fire and spark;

he walked thru the rain,
obvious hair, damp and mussed,
mirroring the pain;

he stared at the purple sky,
looking deep in its heart,
hoping life more than a lie;

she of the oldest wind,
set sail to lands without limits
so that her wings would never be pinned;

he set sails for defense,
cleansing his sins in the ocean,
or praying for his essence;

she moored at lines
that moved like clouds,
but grew like vines;

he poured in lament
to fill the void,
to pull him down in his decent;

she sat on panes,
peering into lives lived with them
drifting, grasping for the manes;

he lay among the willows,
wrapped in the earth, listening
as she would bellow;

she stamped with journey,
frozen tundra of memory,
still, so still, awaiting a burning;

he, aflame with imprisoned truth,
transforming his imaginary world –
flowers from his mouth so to be couth;

she in line to visit her tears,
assuming the same embrace and stance
on display, wearing her fears;

he of the silent oath,
if only to himself,
broke the vase, swam the moat;

they trembled as one,
continents shifted to change the face,
earth to birth its gift and done;

they of forces opposed,
danced the dance of nature’s hope,
their lives as they knew, now transposed;

they find the light,
though seen from different angles,
gives strength to their plight;

they among the daffodils,
persimmons, lilies and song,
find the travelers rest gentile;

they speak to the sun,
dance with the moon and stars,
will dance till everything is one.