454 and 455

To CSL

How quickly I forget I am a ghost—

that nothing moves by my own hand alone.

My movement of each blade of grass, at most,

is merely parcel to what gods condone.

No real thing changes by my will. ‘Tis mine

to wish at moving things. To whisper so

to real Material that can design

the matter of the world I think I know.

My hand, my ghostly hand, so naught of strength,

that waves mere aspects back and forth again,

what do you do? Is there any wavelength

that’s consonant to yours that you can bend?

But I forget the most important part:

I own and move the matter of my heart.

~~~

Anti-entropic we, who make from naught

when put together and when pulled apart:

together, making joy from every thought—

apart, weaving the yearning from each heart.

So let me not despise our time away,

but sew with all our yearning warmth of hope;

and let me fear no snag while you can stay,

but sow, with our shared joy, seeds of all scope.

For, either way, we beat that boorish Time,

who, over all else, prophesies descent.

Our time, in every case, can only climb

both higher and more broad without relent.

We two, two catalysts against the law

that says that naught from nothing can one draw.