Sitting in the morning so that the birds

Sitting in the morning so that the birds
don't know you're there. Whispers in the trees
and clouds that slowly obscure the Sun
telling ripe secrets. I can see her chest

fill with a spirit, her mouth articulate words
and legs inspire movement. Sitting in the
air waiting for weather, I'm the argument
for silence, the failure of a mysticism

from another hemisphere. I cannot think
nor speak without gross error. She's alive
with love as the Sun rises, I can hear

her body dying in the darkness. I'm sitting
under movements of moisture that remind me
of the first songs that I learned as a child.