To The Poet: Tori

Your old soul lit new, brighter flames, That will burn now, forever, always warm, Against my beating hearts that even Death's Cold hands, the coldest, cannot canopy Neither that bed nor that which naturally Is. Of course constant, the natural lives We live, we'll live inside this little song Infinitely, so far away from chaff, Winnowing our way through the grass above The grass below, the wind's consumed enough of. I'm tired of dreaming, dreaming of your touch. Are you not tired too?—Isn't this why you write, So beautifully done and blessed at times, These little sounds that turn stone into gold?