Can you not tell me that you hear it, too,
that exquisite silence that surrounds us
in the storm, like an eerie wooded glen
devoid of birds but full of plumage, still,
so that the bejeweled and feathered land sings
as sweet as any nightingale would
if left alone to serenade one hope—
that just beyond this calm his true love calls?
I pace the night afraid that while you sleep,
my garnet-throated missals risk too much
and drag me forward for that cold judgment
faced only by lovers that go unblessed.
Mercy, Lady! Will you not grant reprieve
and confess that in the night, you hear me?

05/12/2010

Posted on 05/12/2010
Copyright © 2024 Angela Cotterman