“On the Verge of Discovery”
Was it the Champagne beach
or the canopy bed?
Was it the bouquet garni
or the breezy flirting?
Maybe it was the harmonizing
of Quiet Houses and laughter.
No one can point to the dawn and say it began here
or there in that valley or over this horizon.
The artist who builds only one castle in the air will never
ride bareback in Arcadian fields.
The child with just one tear cannot charm a mother for
one more song.
The lover who ties bows on regret will one day transform into granite.
Are we the wild horses
or the weeping canvas?
Are we the lullaby
or are we the stone?