So it must be still morn, the sun in bloom,
Or tiny vessels of deep and sacred skin.
A smile that reaches old and wrinkled chin,
A child’s first breath from the protected womb.
The northern lights shine through the earth’s near doom,
Or matching freckles on a spotted twin;
Even a soft touch of a dolphin’s fin.
Stroking a lover with a bird’s last plume.
But you can sing eleven stories high,
So cross your heart and take me when you leave.
For beauty of the world we shall not grieve,
We just do not belong here, you and I.
So we will drink until our hearts do drown,
And lay our hearts upon the softest down.
