there are more than words
that graze the fertile fields
of my heart...it is a living thing.

for it's harvest I wait, as a morning glory,
to become entangled much as a bird
entangles itself within the wind.

express to me what you feel,
hide it among the blossoms of the vine.
Patience rises, to the sun, to bloom.

it has long been barren, what I can
feel inside, deeply seeded in aloneness,
and spring is the wish I sing of you.

but there are more than words...
so much more that remains silent as
the sound of light passes through.