Her speech is bright
flowers on a field
ragweed
Flashes of brilliance
in eons of night
And, like her smile,
constantly surprising
and satisfying.
And I’m happy,
not because
she’s queen
but because
she’s beautiful

But she
is worried, as well,
                                        About me,
                                                about her,
                                                        about us,
And I don’t
know the magic
word to melt her
fear into loveliness
or I would say it;
utter that mystic
syllable turning
the streets to
shimmering gold
and the rain to
sweet sugar drops
who’s soft liquid
form runs on
your tongue
like a warm hug
on a cold day.

And in knowing
the magic word,
the secret key
to all my desires,
I would become
everything and
doubt would blow
to nothing like
salt spray against
the gale...

...and then what
shadows plague
my mind, like
shades on a moonless
night would be
dispelled, flung
marbles from an open
hand and
I would smile
knowing that I
had permission.
But for now I’ll
relive that moment
of ecstasy in
my mind.

                AcB        5.25.98