borrowed and recycled only
they are a poor and crooked outline
of my dot-to-dot understanding
and web through which I see the world
A dozen pilgrims pass me,
strange glances they leave me,
except for one who stops to ask,
“Why? What do you look at?”
Some prefer strings of pearls and diamonds,
adorning a long neck or slender wrist.
But I will ever swoon first,
for the morning’s dew-laced web,
on the snow-white skin of dawn’s fog.
Not a fault of my French, but for forgiveness of all languages,
I sigh a wish to the world where words are stunned mute, and silences speak.
But my wish is a coin,
tossed into a well of unfathomable depth,
and with the padded softness and simplicity,
of that same coin’s awkward splash,
I reply; “Je l’aime.”
And put my pen to paper,
let its point sit and bleed,
adding one more crude period,
to my dot-to-dot understanding,
of this immaculate vision.