Wherever I go, I am there

There’s a sermon at dawn  
where a rose repents her sin  
banishing the fear of her thorns,  
 
wherever I go, I am there,  
through beauties old and new,
my true immortal solitude,
 
I count the minutes in solid stare,
sunken memories in paraffin wax  
that burns a silent wetness,
 
to the moist air, I open my door
through an unwrought truth  
and a babbling earth where affection is long,
 
she stands with each pinned leaf  
holding glistening falls that drop silver  
through a tapered flame in my eye,
 
the blackened brushwood, warm tinder  
that have absorbed creation  
through an envisioned symphony,
 
she stands in silent form;
there is the sound of the rain,
and the night is native once more.