Perhaps I arrive to find myself in the center of a cottony flock, busy clearing daylight from the dark as I bloom into a soft, rosy circle in which the center is everywhere and the circumference is nowhere. I see you arriving in the distance. You are the high, dry morning. You rise and sink, a kind of sun.
Maybe whatever hour I wake at night, there is a door opening. Soft-eared, I do not know I am made from sky until you uncloud me. I barely stir when you come through the grasses. Sound asleep, love upon my lips, I dream how it is to live like a river flows, carried by the surprise of its own unfolding.