Like moths to flame,
we are drawn
to the chaos of our shatter.

Melting into rivers
of ink
I pooled into poetry;
Where nature settled
into a smooth embrace
stirred only by the wind
and fishes.

Too intimately tangled
to unwrap these thoughts
of mine, from yours.

There's a time
at the beginning
of love

you make
your own
weather

whatever the weather is
it is unfailingly
fine.

The music playing
into my hands
the ink of a poet's pen
too dark for reflection
in uneasy light.