What good is poetry
if I cannot lay a path of moonlight
on waters I’ve so recently stirred with anger,
release blossoms into the air
to fly, butterflies around us,
pour the exaltation of larks into our glasses
so we may drink ourselves ecstatic,
play sunlight on the guitar
while reading the notes on the stream
fashion a hair-band from a rainbow
to give to you on the waves that find their rest in happiness,
funnel these wishes into the setting on your ring?
What good is poetry if I cannot say I love you?