Intensity

(To Denise Fujiwara)

Stop, people, do not hurl stones at her!
Hail her unusual persistence,
Her impassionate love and unswerving faith
In the promise of time
That which childhood bequeaths to age.

Never can a miserable seeker find less
Than in the moment's open arms
Vacant with its spacious suspense,
Always providing for chance.

Run in to fill that void, Denise
Pick those four sticks of cane
Sweep with them in search of the fate
For your lost child may lie there,
Look on, now, now and just on.

Who calls you mad, who insane?
Who forgets that it is intuition
which prompts an unchartered life?

Cascading mind’s windowpane – a sequence
Gripping in a strange passion free drama
Shields memory from guilt and regret,
Pain or despair. Denise, I know,
This fabric of your frantic search;
Madness is the fringe of intensity
That holds the only succour,
To the hopeful and the hopeless!