A poem simply sounds the bell, of that which words could never tell.


Sweet flower of bliss,
The perfect child,
In boundless meadow,
Perfectly wild,
Naught to lose,
And naught to gain,
Save the kiss
Of sun and rain,
Heeding not
The gardner's hand,
Nor in need
Of other land.


Softer still,
Than dandelion whispers,
A more gentle falling
Upon your ear,
Than a flight of
Angel feathers,
The mighty silence
Of listening,
A quicksilver shimmering,
Brushing that same
Sweet silk,
Between these words.
I bid you hear,
The eternal echoes 
Of this heart,
And free,
More common
Than dust,
As precious
As starlight,
Warmer than
Ten thousand suns,
Do I love thee.