Under the few plum clouds the wind is still juicy after last night’s storm. My bare feet love the damp mossy stones, every cell the pungency of wet soil. This weather is nothing but the sexual charge between us. Everything you’d look at crackles. Leaves sparkle like the washed glass you’d choose for your milk. Our flowers remind me of Goethe’s “Colors are the deeds and sufferings of light,” all of them for you. The air feels like your body, just out of the shower, hugging me from behind, and when you kiss my neck, the last raindrops from the trees are the drops of water from your hair that drip down my spine where your hand touches me under my shirt. I’m in love with the smell of tangerines and coffee you bring when you come to me smelling clean like the garden. You say I smell like you when I’m almost done sucking the seed. In bed we spend the time it has taken us to turn this slum of weeds into wine. Reaching up into your hair I’m as astonished as when we gather a vial of perfume from a bed of lilies, or hunks of honey from thistles, some of which you stir in my tea with a finger of love. I am not sentimental — I just love everything, this classical wind in the trees, your voice velvet as rose petals blown on the grass in shadows purple as bruised plums. Why not believe these doves in our junipers are other lovers making love, or that everywhere the music of angels moves us because we rejoice in it? Nothing is possible. Here, where we live, we are decaying; yet here we live; lightning brief, yet this humid sunlight suggests there’s something transcendent about our souls’ flesh being smushed together into one — this feeling of cuddling in blankets of thick air after the storm. Lightning is but a seam stitched over a rip in the sky; or is the rip; or its cause — what matters is that behind the rip is your naked body bringing me the sun in a Wedgwood bowl. This is my theosophy, my vision of heaven that feels so good it must be eternal, or if not, then this will have been enough. I’d like to sculpt the goddess of this garden in purple jade as an oracle of the gracious ethic of eternal change. The divine is here in this tasseled wind tussling your hair and the absolute love between us which is simply impossible to see except as it moves us like this wind blowing thyme. Someone thought of purple jade and invented alchemy that could change grapes to wine and wine to blood — metaphor is as concrete as love and what is holiness anyway but roots of wine and bread transfigured into our bodies, or wild fire of the forced lily heretic at the stake blooming next to our bed; who would have guessed that love could grow like a cultivated weed from these ordinary bodies of clay? All day I am overwhelmed. My passion for you distracts me like the green drone of a lawn mower. You push against me, leaning over to smell the yellow freesia I’ve put in a jar of water just for you. The water’s colors of light scatter on my notebook. In that voice soft as a feather blown from the doves’ nest you read to me the poem I’ve just written for you.