We

Who listens to the pine wind song longer than a warbler's hymn?

Who brushes the plush darkness of a black-eyed Susan with a thumb as the other fingers curve to cradle its reaching rays like that of a newborn's head?

Who kneels first at the riverbank, stands next to it to skip found stones and lastly sits to divest of one's self only that which the river can name?

Lawlak . . . were it not for you.

No matter which turn we make, it is always the same version of love shaped into soaring.

Love as the unleashing of God on Earth. As love moves inward, it is a knitted tenderness – a pure peacemaker draped on the shoulders of the heart. When love moves outward, into the commonality, it gleams as justice.

And now, dis-covering.

We dance where sensual meets intellectual. Watch the Sufi's whirl and one will know what it means to balance stillness and motion. What overflows in the perception both sustains us on Earth and delivers us back home.

Yes, back.

The pleasure of scripture as my own heart.
The burning of it.
The unchecked growth of it, like wildflowers in the meadow up to my neck.

Our slow glow of felicity, beloved.
And virtue.
For Love's Sake.

Let us be the lovers we already are.