Even so, a word is the dollar bill
of notion in motion, most common,
capable of being handled
by rich and poor with equal disease.
They too often are false prophets
bearing false profits
and like most other currency
are old, dirty, torn,
and bereft of value.

Inside my head words fare no better.
They for me are poorly heeled
raucous dogs that sniff and huff
at mute Benedictine spirit
and constantly raise a leg for relief
in vast vineyards of mind.

Though unruly and scolded
they bay the moon in coldest starry climes
and howl into the unreflecting night
in protection of my remaining sanity.

So my friends, celebrate well the word
for if well mended they should bear you to your last day;
and if well marked and well tended
shall firmly stand between you
and the relentless dark
thereafter.

No matter, though, for you captured me from the ground,
so well reflecting the brightness of the day, rooted to the soil,
standing to the wind, tucked away in a grove known until that day
only to the Sun, Moon, and stars.
If you had seen me as well as you held scented air,
I would have been found dumb upon the branches above you.
If you could have heard as much as had courage to stand,
your attendance would have met nothing
but warm wind, held breath, and silent longing.

At that moment I wanted nothing more than to be a blossom too,
to root myself and open my face to the Heavens,
to stand and embrace soil below and crying clouds above, forever.
In days since, I have soared and tasted
the breeze that draws me to you once again.
And with it, I am given what before I was without
and could, if asked, flaunt and forestall the tides, the Fates,
and even Time itself with heart and mind, alone.
And now, when I am high above the Earth
of fevered pitch and labored breath,
seeking the refuge of even higher state, you capture me ravaged,
late in my thoughts and too much of the world.
All at once I am stolen to that hidden grove.
For that moment, suffused with you, all labor draws naught of use.
Every windward song quiets, the last fleeting notion falls tacit,
and with the Fates imperiled and all the Earth ashamed,
even the final arrogance of man’s sacred Art gladly fades to ruin.

Within the deepest eves, my dreams launch into weeping
for all things both taken and given, for release,
for the fallacy of pride, and for the joy and sadness
of communing with but the memory of you.
I awake, surprised, with dry eyes.
My first breath, deeply taken, cools my racing heart.
I soon rise to invite labor, Art, Time, the faded Earth,
and the weeping Fates to once again join in battle.

If I am to be the sole warrior versus such foes,
when set to rest or mend broken wing,
I shall close my eyes and take a moment to seek you,
the flower, if only from that moment past,
it will be at least forever in bloom.

I would have taken her in completely
And felt her as much to all my length,
But to find the secret of filling my desire for her
I would be pressed to defy You and the Fates –
To entrap the tendrils that hold together the Firmament –
To eavesdrop upon the very deepest thoughts of God.

And upon such transcendent notice
I would have surely garnered the jealousy of Heaven,
Only to be snapped up and cast down from this perfectly flawed place
My penalty, as a mere mortal having tasted such exquisite grace.

As if to mock me, she once again granted me the opportunity
With her eyes lightly closed – to touch her lips, lightly parted.
I would have dared, but You conspired with immortal Cowardice
To confound me – and I was thwarted.

If I am to never know her,
But am sentenced to live and die in the attempt -
What piety does this world hold?
Would I be the beast that I no longer long to be?
And, unanswered, I remain here – alone – amongst the unblessed base
Of such desires that has confined me so unhappily to this place.

Oh, sweet Failing, how You do preserve me!
Forever your Apocryphal Apostle, I await the morning Sun.
In that final dark moment, I glimpse a final vision of her.
Evening’s final passing glance, the Morning star is chased away.
I close my eyes, and embrace in darkness
That which I shall never know in light of day.

Her visage, like needle in hand
placed well on fingertip
pricks, shoots great pain,
causes blood to boil
yet draws none.

Her body, the edge
brought slowly across,
cuts cold and runs warm
to heal, impatient and slow.

She overtakes me, her form
well poured into porcelain light.
Her closing gaze,
the sound of every word
or turn of head replayed,
warm sighs laid gently upon my neck,
the sweet pursing of lips,
and her slow departure into the dark,
they are each one
a cut of a thousand yet to come.

Friends foretold her to be the death of me,
and given the slow demise afforded others
that have never known such beauty,
it is one that perhaps I should prefer.