In the exhibit of my heart,
there hangs the work my soul has wrought.
a golden glow breaking through your hair
leads into us in your backyard in the early hours,
still,
save for the sound of our breathing.
and somewhere in this hall
I find the rock upon which we basked
that autumn day,
hand-in-hand,
silent save for the hush of the stream.
I can forge these memories into anything.
I have made of you a sculpture -
rounded chin cast against the sky,
thighs taut as a cable,
forehead smooth as a sea-bathed stone.
I have made of you a painting -
a female Bocelli,
sending praises into the untapped reaches of space.
today, I shall make of you a poem,
and the sound of your name in my mind
is beautiful -
flowing from my lips
like a spring of fresh water,
my heart bathes in the waves
it leaves in my soul -
but as I seek the words, all I find
is the lakeshore by which I stood,
casting my eyes towards you like a fishing hook,
angling nothing.
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