Timid Lover

I who employ a poet’s tongue, Would tell you how You are a golden damson hung Upon a silver bough. I who adore exotic things Would shape a sound To be your name, a word that sings Until the head goes round. I who am proud with other folk Would grow complete In pride on bitter words you spoke, And kiss your petaled feet. But never past the frail intent My will may flow, Though gentle looks of yours are bent Upon me where I go. So must I, starved for love’s delight, Affect the mute, When love’s divinest acolyte Extends me holy fruit.