A Thousand Beats Per Minute

What can I see when she has a thousand faces?
What can I hear but the softness of voice in her thousand tongues?
What can I touch if the curve of he back is a thousand times different?
What can I taste if the nectar of her lips is from a thousand flowers?
What can I smell as her every strand of hair is a thousand different perfumes?
What can I do if it takes till the thousandth time to find her?


To hear this little wing beat, a requiem in its own right,
foretelling the future
of each flutter of feathers to come.

Each note is open and desperate and oh so simple
to the innocent eye
when, in fact, each and every movement
is precise and perfect and oh so complex,
repeating itself to stay afloat
on a sea of air and vibration.

The baritone drip-drops of liquid come from the open,
a welling feeling, a wave of air,
now passing the cool blue evening breeze,
with a tremolo of bird and background,
complementing each other quietly,
wishing not to disturb the peace
of this most lucid moment
yet knowing that, as it did the night before,
twilight will come
and put the surprisingly beautiful music
of nature and life to bed.

Then it will leave us with an ache in our hearts,
an ache for the loss of the day
and the yearning for the dawn.