These roots that grab my arm, your plant;
this plan devised in form of a vase by that mind behind your eye!…
This early sunrise, the sunny window to your soul, clearing the overcast eyebrow;
this naked bronze of mine!…
These cold waters unabridged, that my feet will not touch;
this continent where I sit, my shadow of your light!…
This spinal curve sustaining my thoughts, my inclination;
this weak wind, your breath, that keeps my hair alive!…
It must be a history of old I see over the horizon; on the horizon line.
Image by Natalia Molina
