You gazed back at me
before I started looking.
You were inside me
before I thought of You.
When I looked my looking
was your gesture toward me.
When I thought of You your name
was a finger pressed against these lips.
Candle, wick, and flame, all You
burning Me away.
Branches, trunk, and root, all You
implicit in seeds.
But then, whose longing causes Spring?
Who bleeds from twig tips of forsythia,
plum branches and first thistles?
You or I, yearning new roots?
Pressing through whatever royal smallness,
green and pungent,
quivers up from darkness
and bursts from loam?
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