The Patience Stone

There is a song that is sung
by the crested bird
on the shoulder of the wise king.

There is a poem that is painted
by the shattered mirror
from where we all came.

There is a stone, smooth,
sleek, round, cool, that I hold
in my hand and to which I whisper
the secrets that I am frightened
to let be known by the world
until the stone is filled
with the longing and anguish of my soul.

Sated and overflowing
it explodes, and I take the dust
and the fresh velvet ropes
of my thoughts
through a window full of sand

where I paint the night sky with your name.