Hidden underneath the laughter
of two familiar strangers, are words
that listening cicadas would relay
to us in song. But we're the golden arrows
streaming through the leaves.
We're their shade of buttonwood, we
are water, wind and stone. Through us
we'd give the spark to speak that they
would hesitantly use, instead, to fire
sculptures of what could've been.
And I heard their words through the clay;
they belong to you and me. As if buried
in the ground, where roots and beetles seek
the dreams implied in bone,
I wish to watch the clouds again...
...Beneath the shade, we wipe our brows,
swat at flies and banter. Once we're still, I
hesitate,
nudge your leg with mine and
speak. The boughs above us, silent.
Sixth Draft: Longing
Hidden underneath the laughter
of two familiar strangers, are words
that listening cicadas would relay
to us in song. But we're not Muses.
We're their shade of buttonwood, we
are water, light and wind. Through us
we'd give the spark to speak that they
would hesitantly use, instead, to fire
sculptures of what could've been.
But just through their craft, I sense their words
belong to you and me. As if buried
in the ground, where roots and beetles seek
unmanifested dreams within our skulls,
I wish to watch the clouds again...
...Beneath the shade, we swat at flies and wipe
our brows while laughing. Once we're still, I
hesitate,
nudge your leg with mine and
speak. The boughs above us, silent.
Fifth Draft: Longing
Two familiar strangers would hide
their words beneath esprit that eavesdropping
cicadas would sing to us. But we're not Muses.
We're their shade of sycamore, we're water, light
and winds. Through us we'd give the spark
to speak that, instead, they'd hesitantly use to fire
sculptures of what could've been.
But just through their craft, I sense their words
belong to you and me. As if buried
in the ground, where roots and beetles
seek unspoken dreams within our skulls,
I wish to watch the clouds again...
...Beneath the shade, we swat at flies and wipe
our brows while laughing. Once we're still, I
hesitate,
nudge your leg with mine
and speak. The boughs above us, silent.
Fourth Draft: Longing
Familiar strangers hid, beneath esprit,
their words cicadas soothingly relayed
to us. But we're not Muses. Through our shade
of sycamore, our light and zephyrs, we
stoked speaking chances they, with artistry,
confused for sculpting sculptures that portrayed
what could've been. Yet, just from what they made
I sense their words belong to you and me.
O, how I wish to watch the clouds again
for answers I would wonder of until
they are what roots and beetles vainly seek
within our skulls. We swat at flies from skin
and joke under the shade. When we are still,
I nudge your leg with mine and then I speak.
Third Draft: Longing
Cicadas sung the honest words that two
familiar strangers smothered with esprit
and games, to us in soothing secrecy.
It wasn't through a golden shaft but through
our shade of sycamore and winds we blew,
the two mistook the speaking chances we
aroused, for clay; but through their artistry
I sense those words belong to me and you.
O, how I wish to watch the clouds again
for answers I would wonder of until
they are what roots and beetles vainly seek
within our skulls. We swat at flies from skin
and joke under the shade. When we are still,
I nudge your leg with mine and then I speak.
Second Draft: Longing
Cicadas sing the honest words that two
familiar strangers smother with esprit,
to both of us in soothing secrecy.
It isn't through a cithara but through
a sycamore, the dappled grass and dew,
the two misapprehend the chances we
provoke, for clay; but through their artistry
I sense those words belong to me and you.
O, how I wish to watch the clouds again
for answers I would contemplate until
they are what roots and beetles vainly seek
within our skulls. We swat at flies from skin
and joke under the shade. When we are still,
I nudge your leg with mine and then I speak.
First Draft: Longing
Cicadas sing the artless words that two
familiar strangers stifle with esprit,
to both of us in soothing secrecy.
It isn't through a cithara but through
a sycamore, the dappled grass and dew,
the two misapprehend the chances we
provoke, for clay; but through their artistry
I sense those artless words belong to you
and me. I wish to watch the clouds again
for answers we would contemplate until
we rot alone into ourselves. And then
we're in the shade and hear the flowing creek
and ravenous cicadas, on the hill.
I nudge your leg with mine and now I speak.
