The Lover

THE force never to be still, 

is not the way of those 

who study birds and women,

The best poets wait for 'words'.

The hunt is not an 

exercise of will 

But patient love relaxing 

on a greeny hill.

To note the movement of timid wing ;

Until the one who knows

that she is loved,

No longer waits but risks surrendering.

And the women slowly turned around,

Not only flesh and bones

but myths of light__

with darkness at the core,

and sense is found.

But poets crooked, restless flight 

The deaf can hear,

The blind recover sight.