Exile One

Delight laughs with things amazing,
Giggles at things giggling and gurgling.
It is a knife of things smooth and cold.

The silver in mountain lakes framed by granite cliffs,
The white fleecy golden-haired girls running,
The ankle-deep grass of the Washington meadows,
That is Nancy S., and my love for her is eternal.
It is not a possession, but a love--and for her, eternal.

Mine is the smiling mind that laughs and cries.
My love is the shadow of a rose in the fog below.
It is a knife of things smooth and cold.

I seek no satisfaction.
My love for her is enough.
And that alone is delightful.
It fills me with feeling.
It has no demand.
It lives for itself.
And always is,
And always will be the same.
She is here.

Enough.
I'm coming back to Berkeley.