Into the Walled Garden
and how such a combination of letters can e xist?
Purple is a colour packed a way in a bo x,
folded neatly, catching lines of dust in creases,
holding safe words and phrases that form
a conversation?s inevitable conclusion.
The paper on which they sit is faded and dry,
for here is where it is written that black
will be the new coat of many colours.
An outstretched hand, showing an open palm,
calls for words of spirit, forgiveness and understanding.
The words, where they are written, are thus:
“We call on those groups
that promote sexual intercourse
outside lifelong heterosexual marriage
to disband for the sake of Christ and His Church.”
Words Fail Me
Words fail me in the lightness of the morn ing,
where cobwebs hang with dew in the corners
of windows, caught in the softly peeling wind
that pulls sleeping heads from shallow breath.
Warm in the heart of ra in that streaks the glass,
dry in the melt of waking, I can curl sounds
but rarely is there any sense of my thoughts
in the mess of syllable and teacup clutter.
You ask me why it is that words fail me
in the lightness of the morning, where cobwebs
hang with dew in the corners of windows?
In the darkling cast of evening, when the fo x barks
and the owl e xtends wide white finger spans,
words come with the silence of the pen.
There is no other way, no other sense to being,
but to be with you. Feeling the tre mors of your life
me rge with mine through every play of day
and every shade of night is the whole.
I catch my breath, dazzled by your reflection
in the dia mond mask of soft spun thread
that drips sunlight on the morning air,
and cannot speak a single word, my love.