It is not her love that I desire,
the mere requital of an ancient longing.
Nor do I seek to tether her
with a golden band or a gown of pearly cloth.
Her hand forever lying in my palm could never satisfy;
forevermore would never be enough.
Oh, to have coaxed her likeness from the dust,
held her cheeks as my thumbs defined her nose with gentle curves;
to have held her from the moment
of the morning she was born,
and shared each rolling tear,
bathed in every sunbeam smile.
That I was all the world her hands have touched,
each lucky set of lips to ever meet her own -
that's my haunting, hopeless need.
With such joy did the Almighty sculpt her,
then with clay left over, fashion me:
her footnote,
another's understudy,
a breath of wind that stroked her feathers.
But I dream of wings.
"
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