in woodlands, december

I have wrapped your arms in tin,
and with it, a certain eloquence.
He notices beauty, and I, transformative nature.
and terrific unholy material.
My inner spirit dwells in the natural environment;
I pulsate under stone bridges, in flight.
Body yearning to collide with spirit;
to exist in open landscape-
for knowledge to permeate its form.

Decay has no ideas of reference,
no planetary constraint.
It arrives and it flees,
from our re-opened eyes.

I fall below you in mid-morning,
as lightning stretches from your fingers to the sky.
And yes, if your mind extends and begins to wonder,
I do. I finally have my quiet satisfaction.