Will there come a time when you can bear
what might have been, and hear
these words: my memories
that lie like last year’s hay
amongst this summer’s greener growth —
a time when I can share without remorse
my wandering love, and tell how close
your image intertwines my thoughts?
I hold in mind your gifts of joy and pain,
laughter and conflict, fleeting touch:
frail birds in caution’s cage
that dream of flight.
And so I do not speak, but seal
their silent script in some forgotten cleft
unread, but still expressed
and freed.