Witness the full moon disappearing the stars,
ask yourself why we crave clarity of light.
Does it mean anything that two hands touch?
Each seeks comfort that only flesh conveys.
This, then, is the mystery, that a man and a woman
do not know the words, the secret incantation.
Witness the awkward fumbling toward awareness,
ask yourself what magic resides in the eyes of the other.
Are there any words that can decipher the morning?
Even then, tendrils of ivy restrain the new sun.
So much left unsaid in the fertile darkness . . .