silent the watcher

at the end of language
the world bends
a cool stream through
green hills and listen
see the feeling
bird-feathers sway down
they dance in the draft
that circles your room
circles in circles move
touch speak in the twilight
daydreams trap hopeful
your golden slope of neck
with this morning light
caresses curves
untold illusions of God
and the awful rowing
toward his watchfulness
that harsh standard
of home, yet still
isolation now resembles
nightmares the true solitude
those glints off
darkened water so far
gems captured in light
as dewdrops drip
from fanning forest green

1

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