Once the rain is determined,
it will fall.
Physics is only about desire.
The world makes love
between its stones.
Seasons cross the equator.
There is a smell in the wind
when spring comes.
A call to arms,
to sire life,
to call strangers
in the voices of the air.
All beauty is necessity,
passion.
This strange specie
that wakes in the morning,
in a few thousand years
astonishes oblivion,
and may disappear
quickly as it came,
laughing like a girl teasing.
Time, with the aroma of grapes
exploding with the triumph
of summer’s god.
We drink its potion,
fly into space
from a mountain’s bluff,
pushing at nothing
except the zenith.
What a wondrous death
to hold joy,
coursing through our veins,
and impossible,
waiting for its turn.