Where both the clock
and the too meager first light of day
both failed to wrest my weary soul
from Morpheus’ grip, tenacious
though after all so tender in its way –
I was wakened
by a prayer for you
masquerading as a poem
lodged in the depths of my aching heart.
At once I knew it as something
better than my thoughts and I fought to capture it
so that I might make of it a gift for you.
But it was made from gossamer mists
and so soon slipped away.
What you read now is only a shadowy part –
It was a prayer for you
yet for me
and still all for you –
And a prayer
that in our gain
others might not lose –
That you would find peace and joy
and be led strongly upon your path
yet not be bereft of the right,
the forbearance to choose.
That waking poem has mostly left me.
Gone as the whisper
of some dream of unspoken hope
the sufficient cares of day.
No wondrous gift this, my love;
just more water in the sea of words:
the droplets bursting
in their eager earnestness –
making their forever case
for your heart with mine to stay.