Woman! In this wind-racked place, I think of you
while leaves allied with freezing rain attack.
Builder of words, master of dreams am I,
my body as desperate for your arms
as waves are for the shore,
on which to crash with roaring sighs,
a myriad of salty opalescent gems.
Oh, lovely one! Alas, I see:
For all my candor, for all my art,
poor fool, I cannot be the consort
in that stormy kingdom of your heart!
* * *
(c) Gregory V Driscoll 2011