Words fall short.

I wish, instead,

to trace a line in midair

and curl it into poetry made

of smoke

                of mirrors

                                of dust

or craft a piece of music

reminiscent of early birdsong

with lyrics that soothe

the body

                the mind

                                the heart

or hold paper to sunlight

so that day may saturate

the words until they are fat

with tradition

                with memory

                                with significance

But, my love,

I am bound by language.

I can’t.