If I could say, I would confidethe selves I show, the selves I hide;what I see in others and hope to find.
If I could say, find a way to showthe selves I have met and come to know,within me living, fighting, friend and…
Do you believe in Magic?No, no not logic — that’s tragic; I mean magic.That instant when some sort of sleight of handmakes two people suddenly understandthat one plus one is far more than double;that beauty, though fragile, can shimmer like a bubble?
Perhaps
I had thought I would be afraidto feel the day slip and fade.The weighing of promises unkept,steps misstepped, nights unslept,tears wept, of regrets and times-not-yets.
Even if my mind will fade,And lost in labyrinth of everglade,There back amongst the moss and treesAre more precious unknown mysteries.
On mornings like these, when rarely I have peace,Have a few moments to hug to sleep’s familiarity,Feel rested and warm beneath the soft covers,Feel complete in my bed, with or without a lover.
For one whose eyes ceaselessly seekThe gleam of new, novel and sleekThat which is green has much to teachNever novel, only newness to preach
Come take me and bake me and meld me and make me,and after the flame fragile glass I will be.
Come paint me and stain me, in panes rearrange me,and after, afar admire cold tapestry.
It’s the diametric delicacy of scale in balance, It’s the wobbling wiggle of top in circular trance,It’s the random wriggle of tilting tabletop ball,It’s the grin on Merry-go-round, hoping not to fall.
There’s something now about Sunday morningsI felt it when I woke on one, and restless at heart,Took a long walk, aiming loosely for a nearby park.
Second hand slides and turns ‘round,Drifting leaf spins and twirls to ground,Thinning mist curls and swirls around,Arc of wave curves inevitably aground,Silence emerges timidly from sound.