Vines of sound wind around my heart.
Wind of distant passion blows in
a changeable east wind.

Take me with you
to your interior landscape,
and I promise to ask no questions.

Shadows of late afternoon sunlight
tremble silently on the wall beside us,
listening to the battling of my heart.

Time and again
I have been undone by you.

Zeus himself stands by, admiring
your tricky disguises.

The simpler and more transparent
the convincing illusion
that you are some other man,
the more dangerous
the dissembling.

It is always you.
Always will be you.

And this will happen again
as it is happening now.

As perfect as a child's drawing,
a snowy mountain framed by
equally sloping, emerald foothills.

Only six chalets,
and soft-eyed cows meander,
their hand-hammered bells
the only sound.

It is early evening,
and a young family visits
the alpine botanical garden
in the center of the valley.

As the light fades,
the father crouches down
to photograph the hidden
worlds of these tiny flowers.