If I could paint your whispers
soft with grace,
trace the years in hinted lines
within beauty of your face,
with each sway of willow;
every lazy daffodil,
pour light into every crevasse;
countless dreams and wishes, fill.
With each stroke, articulate love,
bring constellations on bended knee,
sing praises by way of alliteration
string sonnets in the shape of hearts
to further prove my metered plea.
This palette, an earnest attempt
to meet the solace of your gaze;
these nurturing hands reach out,
like poetry in chorus
to shudder in awkward phrase-
three words or so to tame the mist,
to rope an over zealous moon;
to leave myself transparent
amidst shadows that faded too soon.
So, here I am in the silence of willows;
with only breeze to accompany in chorus
of leaf and limb, petal to petal
like the artists that stumbled before us.