Wildrose Passions

we might gallop over fire, so much to the deserts, so many cactus in our understanding.

the wilderness by its blossoms. the oasis sustains us. life remains crooked.

many feelings to a puzzle. to sing opera, to stand on clouds, to leave it to reality. wanting something outstanding, if to do what has never been done, if two would fly with golden wings. seaside memories. sideway realities. trying for more than we ever become. trying to sense, see, and seize a person—from deep within—that unreachable space; to smile with ink dripping, to fret over something small, to feel every unnoticed gesture. too sentimental for persons, from depth the underbrush, to unfasten an emotion, to touch inside—those roses, and tulips, or the sprouting begonias—some moon in time, over a bowel of kiwi, to find excellence in its charms. to walk away, looking higher, as never a taste so sweet, both fused to infinity. so many feathers, so great the flight, palming a pottery wheel—made invisible to life, visible to senses, decorating water with zinnias. too much to say it, to lay claims to it, it must blossom—it must float before our hearts. like cloudberries, aside a sky ship, framed by irrational expectations. so much passion inside, with much of it latent, to feel it by rivers and waterfalls and dreams. the sentiments of unspoken leaves, the winds passing through meadows, so unquestioningly. to need the fury of the seduction, the subtle flame, so close, so neat, so unforgettable.