Is like breathing in the intermingling scent of wet earth and rain,
On a wild and burning summer afternoon,
Or maybe so a lick of frozen yogurt by the sandy beach,
Or a boxful of brownies and macaroons.
The art of loving truly is perhaps a brush that does not paint,
if the hand that holds it knows not the colors of the world.
A poppy budding to bloom among many others,
The thousand gestures and flutters that come with such few words.
The art of loving truly digs deeper than the grave,
Beyond the bluest of eyes and warmest of smiles,
Beyond each raging foamy wave,
Apart from the world, apart from the mind.