Wherever I look you are islands a constellation of flowers breathing on the sea deep-forested islands mountainous and fragrant fires on a bright ocean at the root one fire all my life I have wanted to touch your ankle running down to its shore I beach myself on you I listen I see you among still leaves regard of rock pool by sun and moon and stars island waterfalls and their echoes are your voice your shoulders the whole of you standing and you turn to me as though your feet were in mist flowers birds same colors as your breath the flowers deliberately smell of you and the birds make their feathers not to fly but to feel of you —W. S. Merwin, “Islands”