underneath
the words that rise and fall,
that lift themselves over stones,
and around half-exposed boulders
there is the log
once standing.
the detritus from
last year's sudden storm
the flooding of tears
the rush of anger
now buried in the silt and sorrow
of an unhealed heart
this is the poet's
secret salve
the bitter herb tied up
with a satin ribbon and
hung upon the door
this is the garnet ink
once flowing through the chambers
of a hopeful heart
now spilled upon the page
in words that few will
see for what they are
the beautiful shards
that catch the light, the
minor chords which
weep from Barber's strings,
the clean sweep of a river
after the storm,
after the silence,
after he leaves...
