Poem of a Foolish Poet
What kind of poem should I write for you?
The wind's too thin, the moon's too worn,
The stars too shattered to touch your sleeve.
Flowers—how many would be enough?
I gather and pile them past the sea's edge,
Words knot in my throat and rust before they leave.
What kind of poem should I write for you?
Ah, I'm just a foolish poet.
Spring arrived—I hardly took note.
How the universe began—couldn't care more.
The sun goes down, leaving time behind,
I drink alone, cup after cup,
Yet pour not one sweet Shakespearean line,
Nor conjure Willow's love-laden lore.
I'm just a foolish poet—
What kind of poem should I write for you?
What if… I give you my tears
To water the violet by your bed,
And weave my sleeptalk into wind chimes
To hang where you pass by your window ledge,
All those poems I wrote and tore, written again,
Wrinkled like a palm that once held sweets?
I'm just a foolish poet—
All I can do is give you my whole heart,
Unwrapped, just as it is.