The sapling cedes to the wind and rain, thought the roots hold,
made of deeper yearning than what clasps our feet to this earth.
I cling to you in the same way, though I'd never say it aloud.
You ensnare me with joy, and I wrap my arms around the oak
feeling each booming vein.
Words always fail; from tower to inlet, everything I utter disappear:
sounds so elusive, they pass from mind to mind like a shared dream.
They touch lightly, a mere notion's delicate filaments dancing
in a cupped hand. I wish I could close this fist and own it,
but it lives on the wind.
Love may never reach your ears, but it passes from hand to hand,
a coin cycling through the market on a good day. You aimed it right.
But I'm the one juggling the apple on my head, waiting to be saved.
I am the ballast to your wave.
Unrevised first draft of a poem using words from a crossword puzzle I solved last week. I know little of love to write a good love poem, but well, it doesn't mean I don't feel like this.