the poet’s confession to the beloved

poet I am not
for it is you who improvise
who conceive the poems
I am but the voice through which
your beauty speaks to the world

nevertheless    my dearest one
let me keep my paper  pen and ink
your scribe will I be
taking such endless notes and so many
that all the world   seeing such a whirlwind
of paper   will think it snows all year round

If anything of me remains in these verses
it is my great awe in face of your beauty
the rapturous joy I feel
whenever you draw near me
this great love which fills me ever
since I became your servant
so garrulous   so unworthy

*    *   *

© Gregory V Driscoll  2013

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