The Poetry in Sweet Silence
Is sight the color of your eyes,
or the color of my love?
Do I hear the music of birds,
or my listening heart catching the song?
Touching the roseís velvet petal is soft,
but not as dear as your warm callused hand.
Smelling the air after rain is delightful
because it reminds me of my first dance.
To taste the chocolate of hot fudge
I am again a child.
To use words without the paint of feeling
would be to overlook your eyes
that turn my blush to glow,
or when I look in the mirror
and see the stretched canvas,
to ignore the transparent skin
and the tremor of the artistís hand.
So I brush my hair now in the fireís glow
and know you will see sparks fly across the room,
for in the rise and fall of breath
there is that fine pulse
where perfume is born,
born in that tender place
that slides along your shoulder
where I breath the scent of the fir tree,
where still life comes alive with song
and fills sweet silence with poetry.