EYES OF A NEW MORNING   <return to contents

Between the Lines
I read to her, the other night,
another group of poems by poets
whose ears are earth pools,
whose eyes are tunnels,
whose pens are transmitters.

I read to her, and felt the words
rise like castles
on the countryside
of a hundred English myths,
with the princess in the tower
calling for her prince
in the secret silent tones
that only a heart can hear.

I read to her, and watched her eyes
demand that I meet them,
halfway, at the cusp
of our vibrating universe,
where she could pull out of me
just what she wanted the poem
to bring us –
A new pulse. A new rhythm.

I read to her, and crawled deep
into that place she has forged
in her bosom for me,
that place where I am safe,
where I am cuddled, nurtured,
held in the mightiest graces
of eternal composition itself,
the spark of creation,
the cradle of Genesis.

I read to her, a love poem this time,
and I knew from her smile
and her gestating tear
that the poem was true.