Under the trees light has dropped from the top of the sky, light like a green latticework of branches, shining on every leaf, drifting down like clean white sand ... They embrace until exhaustion The twin doves That rest or fly upon your breast, They travel the distances of your legs, They coil in the light of your waist ... If your eyes were not the color of the moon, of a day full of clay, and work, and fire, if even held-in you did not move in agile grace like the air, if you were not an amber week ... Home