Poetry Without Motion
A Poem
A Poem
I carve into the skin-thin title page
with a sharp-tipped pen,
to find a stone beneath the powdered dust,
and wonder if it once belonged to me.
The eloquence of silence captures me
in the frozen moon’s silver rays.
I sense in the night’s aurora,
our lives, sketched in fading light.
Years that pass in stately procession
unspoiled by praise or blame,
and days when I dared to dream,
lost as a snowflake in the sea
Swept by the tempest of your love
I write on—words that do not rhyme.
A sheet of paper with no meaning
alas, devoid of verse.
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