Sonnet VIII

If your eyes were not the color of the moon,

of a day full [here, interrupted by the baby waking -- continued about 26

hours later ]

of a day full of clay, and work, and fire,

if even held-in you did not move in agile grace like the air,

if you were not an amber week,

not the yellow moment

when autumn climbs up through the vines;

if you were not that bread the fragrant moon

kneads, sprinkling its flour across the sky,

oh, my dearest, I could not love you so!

But when I hold you I hold everything that is --

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