The Gifts

How keen the voice that bears the song and fire,
Of Muse’s gusto’d lines in poet’s soul.
To hear its raise in rush of pure desire,
I offer gift to honor such extol.
 
Across a colored field I saw you first,
In huntress robes with bow and bardic spell.
A land where light and words, not wine, quell thirst,
With lovers’ vow and spill, I drank and fell.
 
But dark the night when lights and words would fail,
Slow did the land dissolve as windows close.
And falls of day as black as silenced tale,
As lost as Muse without the poets’ odes.
 
But true hearts know their truest lovers’ arts,
And give the gifts that other gifting starts.