of verses
few are written
my passion to discern
no meter come
to match
my violin
language not yet
given breath
to longing unconfessed
cept in that tiny realm –
we are again

where sacred deemed
a moment dear
as none before the same
no poetry
committing us
to rhyme
eternities
and ne’er a line
could answer for my soul
or speak above
a silence
so divine

. . .