I’m floundering no more, in this brilliant season of open skies and golden loves, and I feel You riot inside my heart with all the glory of an exploding star. You parcel out your scorching winds and scatter relentlessly such fiery coals but I am scathed no longer, not since you’ve covered over my tender skin with wordless grace as thick as midnight and I willingly tuck my quiet face into the folds of sky You blanket all around me. I am a nomad, a mere visitor in this green world where my every thought trips me steadily down Beauty’s trail in the pursuit of the sublime, some transcendental notion of a romance far greater than a young girl’s comprehension – do I speak in the abstract, then, and lose myself? For it’s simple, really, but I am so beleaguered by the slipperiness of words, their “just-so” meanings and stark truths, when all I want to do is slide between the cracks and suck the marrow out of life (Thoreau, how I thank you) until my very soul is filled to bursting with all the inexplicable, glittering madness born of my desire to embrace the wind at all costs and forget myself in the beautiful. When I close my eyes and truly learn to see, I’m awestruck by the things I’ve learned to lose, now and then, as I go about my little days, when they are what I desire most to sew into my summer skin and drip into my poet’s veins.

I’m in love with the world as I know it could be, you see; for this is all I’ve ever tried to say, my bare feet skimming over greens and blues in breathless pursuit of an unearthly magic, a filmy promise whispered from the end’s of Beauty’s train as she teases and taunts me a pace ahead, smug in her knowledge that she can never fully be caught and will forever keep her dreamer souls enamored with the sheer giddiness of a lifelong chase. There are oceans I’ve yet to see and sunsets that burn my eyes from across the world; sands my springstep toes ache to know and seasalt nights I crave to feel dripping from my tongue. I’ve yet to chase other winds, to hear their foreign whispers as they comb through my hair and lead me there, and there, and ever on.

I am not content to slide on through, and I have no desire to see my name in lights – I simply, steadily, softly desire adventure and the flap of canvas sails.

(If you’ll only turn to me and give me your light eyes, unfettered and unafraid of the way we might discover how they bleed into mine, I just might slip my quiet fingers into yours and together we could dangle our legs off the end of the world and wait for our lives to begin.)