...this perfect kiss.These flowers which risewithin the glades, the lightbent by branches, the hum of bees and sap.The touch of, the kiss of, sunupon forest floor. The slow arching neck,ancient heron, aloof in shaded stream.The beating wings, no Leda here,a willing joiner, raising lipscaressed with tender presses,the light which heats.The moment of beginnings.