Books speak of you but books
are dead wood beaten into paper and dry ink
words strive to bind you but words
are empty cages and you bear no captivity
you live in the beating heart of your world
in hues of growing grass and leaves
in bird call, in revving of the truck
in bird call, in revving of the truck
on my tongue, you taste of tangy fruit
the stillness of the lizard
basking in the afternoon sun is yours
you leap in the sudden joy of my heart
yet, blinded and deafened that I am
I say I cannot find you
yet, blinded and deafened that I am
I say I cannot find you
No comments:
Post a Comment