Love itself describes its own perfection

Love itself describes its own perfection,
there is no need for words. The whirling art
of wandering stars beyond the blanket of cloud
and the turning bayou listens. Love itself

is mover of existence, the two birds
that sing in the early morning have a song
that describes the light. In the thrones of trees
and seats of flowers are the right proportions

of penitent architecture. Yet, the poems
continue to unfold, the text resolves
itself to further development. The wondering

man devises schemes and tropes, philosophies
and diagrams. But, love is without science,
love itself describes its own perfection.