Sitting deep in the night
I cast my hoping net,
Waiting for a poem.
One swims by, ponderous, dim.
An epic about war and glory. Not mine.
Another. A Haiku. I cradle it gently:
My roof catches the rain,
My ears catch the raindrop’s
splash–
catching my roof.
I wait, for your birthday is almost here.
A poem must have been sent, to drift in–
for poems are love,
and Love does not forget.
Ah.
I reach, I stretch. I touch.
As it comes into me
my heart warms and the feeling is one of tears
and tenderness.
I drink. The poem fills me. It is music, few words.
The words say:
As I grow older I grow in love for you.
For your love is unfailing, uncritical, noble.
But more than your love for me, which, like
the earth,
is where I stand,
There is the treasure. You, yourself.
You never needed to say what you live.
The words end.
The music goes above me and ever continues.
I offer the poem
it cannot be enough.