xi.

Darling, I might call on you some other day, some other hour,

and I think of you as it burns, as it rains,

and wonder if you are getting enough in this world,

and come bearing flowers.

And as thoughts of you arrest me,

my base anxieties start to stir

that I have done too little, gone too far,

and fouled amid the seasons your own

nature to give birth

to eternal blossoms of the heart.

But one day, one hour,

on a line that extends unknowingly far

from the place I point at fondly

and refer to simply as ‘the start’,

I came to see you, and there they were.