We speak with our writing and not our bodies,
we speak with our eyes not looking.
You are beautiful.
Delightful scents of firewood and unseeable
flowers polyphony, carrying me in your melody
darling, youth in sensitive smiles
looked out at my eyes,
speechless from an innate place
where your form sang.
Life itself created
this second moment
of accent, changed, in part
by a bridge of words, not heard
and heard in soundless tone
held in transcription
I could hear you.
Elation, such honest flattery!
We spoke, liberally
on subjects, intimately, humourously climbing vines
and my heart
saw images sensed,
where elation of your beautiful letters fell
inspiring me to paint words in rain,
between shapes of wind-song,
resonating and retrieving notes while turning in suspension of a fallen
mouthpiece whose reed has not yet felt the eyre of voice
we will speak
but until then
inspiration, the aura of atmosphere
fill me, and I will listen, at night
to wind-pipes hung from young branches
in an ancient Oak tree.