The white ducks fly on past the sun,
Their wings flash silver at the moon.
While [bad word] down the mountain tongue
My organs play a circus tune.
I dance to the wonder of your feet
And sing to the joy of your knees.
The cold white dress on the mountain breast
Paints the frozen trees.
The maple plants patterns in the sky
Its leaves to kiss the wind
While scores of glittering bugs and flies
Dance polkas on her limbs.
I whistle symphonies of your face
And laugh for your hair so fine.
In startled greens of playground grass
child jumps rope to rhyme.

Reeds and brass, the marching [bad word] Make a joyous sound
Trees bend low with nuts and plums
Then fall to find the ground.
I hunger for your porpoise mouth
And stand erect for love.
The sun burns up the winter sky
And all the earth is love.