The evening sky's sapphire & tenderness
would teach the frail wasp to wait for honey;
this weedy waiting as the light grows less
is measured now (as every Jack can see).
My wooden rhododendronship would sing
your miracle of seeing fingers--branch
on branch alight (if such a backward thing--
& shy--could sing)-- a verdant avalanche
or undertaking of the universe...
but I will wait-- & waiting (drop by drop
as honey oozes from the broken comb)
I'll hear your heartbeat stem the flood of time,
as shadows of your chariot wheel stop &
stoop low to kiss my weak echo of your course
Henry Gould | Island Road 65
Contents | Mudlark No. 6