I
Lilacs swell
With the coming
Of their blooms.
The sun glides,
Stretches to mine
The meadows.
Sheets of leaves
Gone pastel
To touch
Intone the soft-
ness we later
Gesture when
Drawing the other in.
II
Surely,
Destiny comes
To us, bearing
Plains as shoulders
While we
Reenact
The continuous wither
Not yet known to the seasons
From which we draw
Air as measure
Between the flesh and breath
In crisp, white
Surrender.
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