All the things you are, 
are things I find dearest to me-
the dimmed light of  passive spirit,
the indecisiveness of the sea.
There is clear clarity like the winter,
across the land in a frozen sheet.
Gravel tongue like the rough pavement,
that bays not to passing feet.
A graveyard statue stark against skies,
or even the starry night
but gentle like wind beneath wings
as it passes in flight.
An ever thoughtful mind,
the warmth in the dark,
the tenderness in soft sheets-
A beloved and cherished mark.
Impossible to avoid,
like the setting of the sun,
the last few echoes of a note-
Inevitably to be done.
And someday with hope like that
of leafy climbing vines,
I hope to find that all the things you are
will finally become mine.