Unknown as leaves amid spring summer breeze
Or trivial as stones in the destiny of brooks,
I flit by her presence and vainly now hope
For sprinklings of green amid brown grey or rust
That kindle my embers of hope.
Her lips now are made my rosaries of faith
Her face my icon of anchorage in storm.
So I conjure my lines from glances unseen
And weave a whole yarn from words she won't speak
That gather my sighs unaddressed.
Only in hours both idle and worn,
I indulge in dreams full of rebirth or more
And script a new fantasy of time-travel lore
That moves our orbits up close.
Once these are gone, I plod back on earth
And stagger as a discarded can in its groan.