Wording Love into Trees

If I answer the query, Who am I?
I am is the ultimate reply…
Regardless of qualities…
No matter the poesis or the eros…
Still engaging in the Third from far afar,
I never feel removed from the abiding love of my life—Lisé
And, in the midst of our rhizomatic lives, the nurturance of love feeds
We, is the subtle name for our manifested interaction,
Which continues to thrive under the current in the background
Pondering the mysteries of love incites a cosmotic reaction;
Stars, moon and sun come mythically vivacious
Stages, from nigredo and albedo to rubedo show unions we breathe
Trees peel back layers in a momentous celebration of lived history—opening, closing four times three
Spells of enchantment impart worlds we rarely see

Dante whistling on the wind in Terza Rimas profound
We heed spirit’s call to descend and ascend in helixical vibrancy
Momentarily you move with rhythmic consonance there and here when I am neither
Yet I feel you and you feel me
Ah, transcendent magnificence that is our love…
We knew semblances of this love in temporality that surpass the imaginary
Shall I tell you a toll of the bell that rings silently,
You might wonder what clanger made it so, if you knew not it was a powdery soft wing
But you once blew that monarch to its destiny and so such a notion proves incongruous

When embarking on a new path one does not question the where and the how or the what,
and definitely not the why…
Yet, we both felt something that denied conventions
That altered destinations
That complicated salutations
That brought us to exultations
Now I ask, is this righteous?
Righteous in a sense of spiritual embodiment, in form and physicality
In mind and intent
In spirit and soul
Have we lost a part of a whole only to make more of a whole of it all?
Yes!
In bridges falling, skies coloring stars white and suns painting pinks about
We lose no sight over the inner moving through seven times an infinitude of stages
A tree speaks, it sings, the moss silences the gray fog stills
A drop drips to dewy moisture
In the folds of an entire universe within
Without, heralds announce triumph of a Third
In that I succor respites long past for they know nothing of now
Wings fluttering in yellow and white
Fluffy lace and splashy lion
Seeds in a poppy field
Remembering its sempervirens passed…
Odes I have written, and this is not one, unless we consider what has past
In that case, I ode it all, as I owe it all to an eye like Horus
A feather that weighs right
And just peace of solitude amidst love and happiness that knows no bounds
Fly
Fly like the six-foot Raven’s wings amidst tallest trees in the world….
That we ride among
And thrive within

Can I shelter the moss that grows fragiley on paths’ edges
To give it better purchase so that it might green something gray or brown or black?
Can I take green and make it blue so that the sky has a common thread of decency
After it enters my soul, to commingle with what has been named the green chlorophyllic flow
From leaf all the way to root tendril?
Can I tend the diverse sages growing and surrounding we
So that they too echo wisdom in tune with heartthrobs we push unknowing?
Can I take red and make its oxygenated splash my heart for the world to purely ingest?
Can I open to skies splitting my consciousness and blowing through my shadows,
in order that the light and the dark integrate to see common ground?
Can I take blue and make it see itself in a stroke of chance purgatory?
Can I welter ordered rays that strike dewdrops with arrays of brilliance
and topple crystal mounds over molehills in Ides long forgotten?
Can I take yellow gold into more than Yukonic recall, more than iconic repast,
more than any box it has escaped into freedom similar to that of amor’s escapades on mountains lost?
Can I find humility and nurturance needed for the royalty enveloping me,
for the death by drowning already incurred, as we swim out of that death into regality?
Can I take purple and make it an opportunity worthy of its storied past,
an opportunity that shall not lose one askance at the royal decorum, and instead shall be lost in rapport?
Can I follow the passion and derangement in striking flames of lost imaginings
and see it has altered its path to seek out mine own?
Can I take orange and place it nimbly next to the turquoise caftan worn by my love?
And, if I seek white and black only to discover their grayness, finding plenty without either
Shall I then transfigure my soul to be only that white and black seen before a gray veil illuminated more?
And, can I then take that white, black, and gray and discover portals unfound,
undiscovered within the moss of hirsute-not-less astute in the firmament
soaked in beams coating palaces of mottled flawless amethyst?
Here, as jury and judge, I offer only that of the warranted reflections
of the master whom I love more than my own life, my wife

Here, in Sequoia de O’ distinctions are overcome
as a horrible lack of muddiness might threaten it all,
undergirding something unintended so that it might fester,
instead clarity shows through like the light of warm colors
leading to blues and eventually to purple,
and in this happenstance following of the chakric outlines,
we find grace has found us and we simply laugh…