For Her, at Last


Take pity on a silent bard
whose words fall like a broken sword
an empty battlefield discard
by my own tongue betrayed

For language becomes obsolete
and any verse, however sweet
is, at its finest, incomplete
incompetence displayed

What use is voice, or pen, or art
when fire sweeps clean a poets heart
and all my striving falls apart
at just one breath from you?

Now doomed to fail again I will
myself to find the words to fill
the stubborn silence, aching still
to forge that sword anew.

When I, by mornings sweet surprise
have watched the dance of dragonflies
behind the dawnlight in your eyes
can I be held to blame

For seeking ways to reassure
you that I'm lost, beyond a cure
and have of you a need so pure
desire cries in shame?

Still I again am made to see
that I have not the skill to free
the simple, sacred mystery
this golden band portrays.

But now, when sure defeat draws near
I see at last the answer, clear
and still my voice, that you might hear
in silence, perfect praise.


(written years ago, when I still built each poem like a geometric scaffold. Hope someone will enjoy, though.)