Sifting the Currents
No one scoops up the vast subtleties
Of my mind's water
Quite like the hands that adore me most
There are no holes,
No overflows, nor spills
This soul does not filter away the essence,
Does not pluck the bloom before it has shown its worth,
Nor does his powerful hands have a heart to ever remove it
From its marshy field of poetic influence
But when it rots,
He simply refuses to discard
And instead regards pollution with avid wonder
For he knows with a nod I have it in myself to teach
And I have it in myself to heal these inner hells
So when these waters flow freely again
In search of new blooms and clear horizons,
I will find his precious hands sifting, provoking the currents
Admirably never losing sight of our love's purpose
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