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