It’s perhaps the quietly wild ways of you that I love the most

The way the hackberry bark has mountains and valleys of its own

The way the small doe in the meadow looks right at and through me

with soft, ebony eyes

The way the bluebird flashes heaven with impossible blue

The way the tulip poplar leaves breathe in waves and quivers,

while maple’s rise and fall

Your ways are never exactly the same and finally my own wild is fed

with full doses of your own

You are intoxicating with your impossibly possible ways