Tuesday, February 14, 2012

The Rushes

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.
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.