White Sunday 20

I heard it. The sound of silence cracking around the edge
where the sedge has withered, all dithering aside,
I slide into to momentary gap between words
and find myself absurdly off balance, like a buffoon
in a Renaissance morality play, caught in the act
of acting like a normal human being, a role I am
rare to fill. expectations being what they are
and every scar has a name and a story
that rides with it to the place where the ancient
stop aging and become, themselves, memory.

You are beautiful. And brave and passionate.
and I am not a polished stone, fresh plucked
from the shore to show to friends with glee.
I am driftwood of an intriguing gnarl, you are
an unique flower of a tree I had never encountered
before I caught your scent, all jasmine and spice,
like a pear warmed on a very hot day in August.
I reach to touch your skin and crave to taste you,
your juices sweet and savoury to a familiar tongue.
And I wonder on the nature of wine and desire.


William F. Devault. all rights reserved.