With waxen flesh, do I but love thee;
in waning youth, flamed to the wick,
as with spring, sweet was thy name,
then by summer, burned to the quick.
With waxen flesh, thy rose now fades;
this seasonal tide, ‘ere love had flow,
now basks empty, ’til flesh but sighs,
as o’er this flesh, do but breezes blow.
Sometimes, I feel too small for the sky;
it does not see my shadow, stretched
o’er crested hills of this peasant valley,
‘neath its windswept, hallowed surface.
And tho’, I am loathe to dare outcry;
it does not hear my cries of wonder,
to say, not with anger, but with a joy,
I am here, and with constant purpose.
Sometimes, I cannot breathe, but sigh;
for this ocean of air above the world,
it has not depth, but breadth to stain,
so am I, in pallor weave, usurped, thus.
Am I thus laid upon the Earth,
to live out some quiet solitude
whereto the wind does not go,
wherefore the sky ne’er fades;
and in this most gentle quietus
of this windless summer morn,
the air tastes light of orchids,
sweetened upon my wanton lips.
There are, too, those lesser souls,
who yet still walk a certain line,
who ne’er have tasted of orchids,
despite breaths so swelled of air;
had they but truly felt of this life,
would they then take to the fold,
that windless away afore them,
‘ere each orchid breath permeates.
Petrichor 