by Stephen Ellis

Spontaneous beauty
like ancient folk songs
drift down from

the far north,
like the light rain that
cools the genius

living in the roots of
trees, where desire is
locked to the earth

and gnaws at
the heart of things,
giving us confidence

that the future is secure
just because leaves
and flowers and fruit

simply can’t help but
appear when the weather
surrenders her warmth

and love unfurls itself
in protest against
the poverty of having been

held in suspension
by memory and hope
and the silence of

minutes, hours and days
spent doing minor things,
until the time of

naming the petals of
each new blossom,
the time of endless

intercourse, eye to eye,
and the time of wild
dancing finally came.