'Twould seem that this is not a sonnet, sir,
And not a poem written to ask
Your taciturn responses don't concur
accidental hope we felt inside.
'Twould now seem that your feelings were a
As bogus as to rhyme "inside" with "why" -
And unto Love this scheme
repeats its cry
To question of your words what they imply.
As accidents do
happen, I confess
Perhaps the Willow raised her eyes too soon.
Stream to roots could not digress...
Perhaps our instruments were out of
If accidents do happen when one tries,
Then so one has, and I apologize.
Your gaze I feel from far across this space –These pews of people, faces of the mass –
And though I hide somewhere behind my face
With dodged glances, still my heart’s impasse
Cannot deny the very Thing it fights.
This is the willow’s curse, to be so near
The Water that it craves, yet not unite
Its roots with tender coolness it reveres.
And yes, the willow bows before Your gaze
(To look is to betray the thoughts inside),
But who’s to say its eyes it cannot raiseWhen from Your searching glance it needn’t hide?
The roots, they cannot drink, or reach the Stream,Unless the Water welcomes them to dream.