TAKE MY WORDS, PAINTER

Take my words, painter;
Give them the dark and the light
Which attends creation.
My reader is blind!  Give her sight.

My words are blind. Let her see
Her meaning to me
Travel in her own eyes.
Make her see, for the first time, my poetry

In all its hues and cries.
Let her see my pleas to her
In our hearts, where worlds occur.

All she hears are futile sighs:
“My love, my love, my love!”

Let her watch the lowlands where my sorrow flies,
And walk through the fields of meditation with the dove.

Speak, painter. No, sing.
Poetry can say nothing.

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