From living,  to memory,  to dust,  to forgotten.    My beloved, so many pictures, so pretty your grave, so sadly forgotten.    From heat of blushes, to the cold of death, to existing in memory only, to forgotten dust in the wind. 

Only certain speciesthrive in poor conditionsvivid with colorresilient in survivalwith large petal earsto provide shade andmagically bloom tusks the color of ivorywho hold onto memories and tailscherishing their youngwith their trunk handsothers playful in black and white stripes each...

You but walk past your apple trees each morning,And blossoms fall, that they may settle on your breast,Lie, and faint against your silk; I wish to God could I...That chance you'd pluck this fruit, and in me find your...

a glint of sunlightoff of a tine is enoughto shoot my mind into awaking dream where we'reboth five years-young and i'mlooking down at a minnow dartingpast in a perfect little creek that driedup forty years ago while you squeal...

It was not a meeting...not in the way the world counts meetings,with names exchangedand futures quietly negotiated.It was something that arrived already whole...like a season that touches the skin onceand is understood forever.Love does this...it does not always ask...