And once again has the buzz of a fly stolen my words and taken them into flight but without me. And You, once mystified, leaned over my shoulder, and called me a painter with a pen. But I am not nor am I a sculptor of orbiting spheres, a weaver of tapestry tales. I do not do as women do, bearing poem after poem in this loosely bound book. Carves up the page in rivulets.
Force forges the words.
Desperation measures the meter, as you count the time elapsed. I ve kept You waiting swimming while You sail. A call that drones deeper and farther so that it draws me inland. Lying along the shoreline, beside the froth washing impressions, next to the rock You unwaveringly proffer, I know that when I hold Your hand I will stand to see the world make sense But infirm. In ways I long to live, with the earth beneath my feet, as in the ways I long to live in the handfuls of light spilled on the waves.