By mojave Date: 27 April 2000
I love a woman lyrical like the wind through the buffalo grass and complicated like the seasons. (We see no reason for reason and perfection is a lie-- we'll have none of it. Is the sunset perfect? Is the sky?) I started singing again just to sing to her. I love her because she does not ask why. Miracles are immutable, so I live now in hope, in certainty. I am the earth beneath the snow that waits for spring, that knows.