it is not the meaning
that arises from these thoughts that come to me,
it is not these feelings
that so complete me
being with this shower of fulfillment.
it is not from the sight
that my eyes drank with so thoroughly.
it is not the tender letter before me
that I read from with such movement and delight.
it is not the sensuousness of the script put forth
that my eyes were allowed to bathe in and wander.
it is not the deep passion of blue ink
nor the sumptuous script exploring the all of this page,
nor the inviting leaf quality of this paper,
as delicate as is, their mutual embrace.
it is not the boldness ripeness of pen
or the deftness of your graceful grasp,
nor the urging of that arm into your writing hand
that cursively persuades this, emphatic of ink,
upon the page.
it is not the stampede of those processional words
that surrendered from your mind
that so precisely thought them.
and it is not the sweet fire of emotion
from within you that pronounced these feelings
that flooded out on into those words before me.
it is none of these things, essentially.
but it is, the heart to heart in oneness,
that this immersive experience brings to me,
brings forth in me.
where we are one,
experience only kneels at the door . . .