Yellow Rose 3

Yellow Rose 3
Photo by Gamaliel Masters

Telling You

Some morning I will get up, make love to the sky, listen to the heartsongs of birds, set out into the new day and discover it is my last. Will I have time enough on that last day to tell you all those things you want to hear that I haven't been able to say? It's easy in a poem to write love words, poems are love songs no matter what words they wear, but telling you in day words, strung together in sentences that hang in the air, in spoken words, is like trying to build pyramids out of marbles. Love's a web of inner threads, a weaving of memories, sensations and dreams into a fragile net that takes time, that I offer in bits and pieces, never whole and all at once. It's a history shared, interwoven, one pebble upon the other, a nightmare at a time, a joy at a time, it's my knowing what it means when your left eyelid droops or your translating that glazed look I sometimes get. It's the daily offerings that count, so I probably won't tell you in three words or less or take love cash out of the ATM and hand it to you in crisp new bills, but I will sing love in my slightly offkey voice, while I'm doing other things and hope that you're listening.
Zen Oleary October 29, 2003

Many more of Zen Oleary's poems (& those by
several other excellent poets) can be accessed at:
True Vision

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