trust the water

What can I meet you with, holding out in my open arms? If you told me, would it be as freely given, or as highly prized? I could open my flowers for you, and you could feel the saffron-threads of my tender joys. Love the light, I love. My love. But not any exception keeps you from meeting. Lovers interrupted in a half-grove of moonlight and attention, vying for significance in each others' hearts, still very much a dance, two roles, the moon and tide, but no question as to who responds, who sets and wanes. In an instant I am moving beyond the better part of doubt into knowing that a certain center of the self is always present, watching, a voyeur in the game of love until the undulating body prudently closes its eyes. Unbeknownst, unknowing, it waits balanced like an egg, to fall on either side. The better part of valor is hope. And each encounter makes one more sure that the beginning is time well spent. How can something end if nothing ever begins? Has the courage to begin? wet.