The field mouse lives in the eye of the red-tailed hawk.
The wandering bee takes the nectar and is gone.
The lover opens his heart, discovers talk
to make sense of blind desire, and goes on.
Today's affection is tomorrow's hate.
This kiss that heals may become a wound.
And yet how can we hope to obviate our fate
when whole worlds light up and worlds are pruned?
All is hazard, and yet all is safe.
Feeling in the dark, we become the shape
of what we prove to be. Fruitless to chafe
at bitter evanescence, which none escape.
Let the field mouse swoon in the hawk's sharp talons.
Let the hive grow sweet and mice new skins.