photo: ralph murre
On Lake
Butte des Morts
by
Gary C. Busha
She
speaks through her beauty
unaware
her silence is perfect language,
while
I speak careless rivers.
My
voice penetrates her innocence,
lingers
blatantly in ephemeral silence.
She
watches lake waves ebb
against
the rocky shore.
She
sighs as we walk the wood dock,
while
the wind flattens her blouse to breasts.
She
had known all she wanted to know
about
me from my very first word.
~
first published in the Wisconsin Poets'
Calendar
