by Steve King
© 2012
All rights reserved
Your body bends upon young grass,
a lightness in your limbs.
How may I keep from promising?
You search for heavens
in unfolding clouds.
Portents.
A sign.
The rushes sigh in the least breeze,
and speak all things to you.
You, the silent one who waits,
while I sigh with the rushes;
while I am left to gather my desire
in its own words.
As the young grass
drinks the sun,
so you absorb my promises
‘til I am emptied.
Now flown are all the words,
no portents,
no sign to show a way,
and dumb the rushes when I pause to hear.
