The Abandoned Poem

I wrote a long poem for you this morning in the pure light of an untouched day. The poem was marvelous! It took two hours to write, two hours to revise, one hour to copy neatly. As I read the final draft, I felt I was in your presence: your flesh as pure as the light, your mind as untouched as the day. The poem was one moment a window through which I saw your beauty. The next moment, a mirror reflecting our joy. Then a darkness that was not nature's fell across my desk. I dropped my pen, closed my notebook. My mind, like a whirlgig. This poem, these paper words contained no trace of you: the down of your face, the curve of your legs, your breathing lifting your breasts, your lips parted to speak, or parting to kiss - Yes, words are such perfect traitors: they make promises that warm you, like summer light, they create spirals of hope. For those hours of composing, the words performed miracles of desire, produced wonders of expectation, and then - I dumped the three sheets in the yard as I trudged to my daily tasks, silent, sullen, sorry. That evening, as twilight slowly finished what morning light had begun, I saw you, sitting alone, on your balcony, half- hidden by a vase of flowers. Your hands held my poem, your eyes gazed intently. I stood leaning against a maple tree, watching this impossible scene, wondering what words were left. No longer traitors, I sifted through my mind to find the words closest to touch and to silence. As I looked up in desire, you suddenly looked down in anticipation. Words dissolved into gestures. Valentine's Day 2014