Transient as the foam, along the trail of leaves I plant a few flowers and pass on my way, a hermit, a poet, a wanderer, a lover with no home but the sky of your face. Yet, long after I’m gone the flowers will burn still, season after season their flames whispering your name and fragrance amid the falling leaves. The hush of your breath on their fiery lips intoned like a prayer rising into the eternal sky. The bees will come to gather your nectar and in their honeycombs ferment the sweetest poetry. And long after I’m gone the earth will remember you as the sweetheart for whose sake a poet became the sky.