For Sara
You ask for a poem,
Knowing
That I cannot sing to you
The scent of apple-blossoms,
That I cannot speak
With the voice of the cresting sea,
That no poem of mine
Could tell the truth of moonlight
Through silver leaves,
While galaxies wheel above.
You ask for a poem,
I tell you I have only written love songs,
That they are different things.
You insist:
I show you ballads
In which I misspell French,
And bossa novas that do not rhyme.
(I resist, but barely,
Comparing thee to a summer's day.)
I am without poems:
There is nothing I can say
Not better said by spring.
I am without poems,
Yet you insist.
I take you to a quiet place of mirrored water,
In a forest after rain.
(It is night; the trees are elm and willow.)
You ask me where my poem is.
I am silent.
As you protest my silence,
Your voice is moonlight through silver leaves;
Your laughter, apple-blossoms waking.
I take you to the edge of the water,
And you look in.
Around your brow rests a garland of stars.
- J.R.S. '04