Writing. Love Is Writing.

The Laying Of Fish On The Embers, The Taste Of The Fish, The Feel Of The Texture Of Bread, The Round And The Half-loaf, The Grain Of A Petal, The Rain-bow And The Rain.

She Did Not Look At The Daffodils. They Didn't Mean Anything. She Looked At The Daffodils. She Said, 'thank You For The Daffodils.

Words Were Her Plague And Words Were Her Redemption.

Let Love Step Down, Open The Clasped Hands, Forfeit The Thorny Crown, Retrieve The Garment That Was Whole, Body And Spirit One, Spirit And Soul.

You Will Not See That Desire Begets Love, Until It All Flames Into One Concise And Metallic Blaze.