Yes, they are alive and can have those colors,

But I, in my soul, am alive too.

I feel I must sing and dance, to tell

Of this in a way, that knowing you may be drawn to me.

And I sing amid despair and isolation

Of the chance to know you, to sing of me

Which are you. You see,

You hold me up to the light in a way

I should never have expected, or suspected, perhaps

Because you always tell me I am you,

And right. The great spruces loom.

I am yours to die with, to desire.

I cannot ever think of me, I desire you

For a room in which the chairs ever

Have their backs turned to the light

Inflicted on the stone and paths, the real trees

That seem to shine at me through a lattice toward you.

If the wild light of this January day is true

I pledge me to be truthful unto you

Whom I cannot ever stop remembering.

Remembering to forgive. Remember to pass beyond you into the day

On the wings of the secret you will never know.

Taking me from myself, in the path

Which the pastel girth of the day has assigned to me.

I prefer “you” in the plural, I want “you,”

You must come to me, all golden and pale

Like the dew and the air.

And then I start getting this feeling of exaltation.