XXII

I met a toad along the path,
wet and glistening from the rain,
he gave to me a sideways glance
and I to him the same.

He bore no quarrels, toil, or strife
but the sundries of the day
and with a sly, contented eye, he shrugged
and quickly sped away.

She Speaks in Whispers

She speaks in whispers,

low and sweet,

a melodic whistling through the trees.

She sings in violence,

-thrashing cry,

harsh and bitter, tempestuous breeze.

My lover strips the

mountains bare

and drives what there dwells away, away,

yet stirs she the bough

'neath autumn's 

rays to swirl the leaf to rain, to rain.

"Fickle bride," some say,

"Why should you

wed yourself to this chaotic child?"

"Alas, I confess,

I cannot

bear the thought of a love more plain but mild."

So I bear her scars,

fury bound,

and bear torment the best that I can,

but bask in beauty

as ocean

driven hard by current meets the land.

There is no sunset

sweeter than

the one that emerges from the rain

so I'll gaze at cloudless night,

stars above,

forbearing touch of a moment's pain.

In alpine fields her

kisses sweet

fall lightly upon the meadow fair

I will not depart

this holy

place but dwell within forever there.