To my Love
I wish to write you gentle verse in languages that touch:
words of the heart and soul and skies and words so tender, soft
I wish to sing of seasons’ sounds with lips that memorise
each autumn, winter, summer, spring: I love you very much.
There is no doubt within my soul that birds which comprehend,
translate from meagre mutterings, core meanings, dreams, content;
when I thus stutter to express a song that’s finally tossed,
I know that every feathered wing flaps tokens that were lost.
Thus: send to you white doves, my love, a love song sealed in sight;
please know these tender thoughts, my love, is love I hide inside.