I cannot hear the sound of falling leaves,

nor can I see the wind that lifts

these tid-bits from the ground;

and never have I touched a sunbeam

with my hand,

nor looked at sweetness like a clipping

on a board.

And if my sense perceives,

perhaps, reality,

how can I reconcile my breath

with words that do not breathe.

Why can’t I say your lips

are like the red red rose

without my mind first wondering

why I thought your lips were red?

But look! The far away hills

are blue and huge

and bouncing out against the enormous sky

they thrill.

How can I care if they are real!

What does it matter what I see

if what I see makes me feel.

And when the smell of pine trees

fills the air with tingling tunes,

and the gargling streams splash

pangs of color as they leap,

I do not long for rational explanations,

I only long to keep

the miracle of this moment

in my blood.

My dear, your lips are like

the red red rose

and feeling the warm soft knowledge

of you lying next to me

is worth much more

than all the measured facts

they call reality.