The Limit

there is a limit to how much

rain a soul can absorb

until it becomes winterlike

- this is not tragedy,

so the soul embraces sleep

hoping dreams will bring

clarity of being

- this is not truth,

the dreams are always

an adjacent person’s epiphany

though nobody knows exactly who’s

- this is not love

then we tire of wondering

who we will become

but we marvel at what our lover sees

- this is not expected

later the enigma you call “me”

touches your soul deeply

replacing the need for self-insight – with sturdier stuff

- this is not a bad result.