She, like those cooling morning winds,
would wait until the dawning spring
to kiss the tender blades of may
with sweet caress and beckoning.

And so would dawn of this our pleasure,
A breach of code and tear of seams.
To know, to taste of one another,
To hear, to feel this angel's screams.

And into darkest secret hours,
A shaded path to purest light,
The forceful strain of resurrection,
A crying out, a turning white.

And into tender blissful noddings,
And lonely longing hunger pains
To taste again of earthly body
To know the waters, feel the rain.

It's hard to break a glass any farther past a point. One can grind a bootheel down upon the shards and those shards will become nothing, nothing but more shards and more cutting edges, wearing thin, tearing at ones soles.