Need

Some feel love. Some feel fear creeping
up the slippery slope when the clouds cast shadows.
Some feel pain. Against the hollow tree
in the singing leaves, slowly swinging.
When it stops, some feel the stark night sky
knot the rope of the thatch-worn rose of spring.
Ruffles of buds from the branches,
the chirp that flies in the breeze, fallen trees
taunting the path that they cover, the drips of rain
that marks the way from the sun-baked book
to the eyes of those they fall from.
Some feel the roots move,
thick clouds tilting ships, perhaps to send high-hushed words
to the ears of a lover. The dragonfly darts in between the bees.
The whispers of wishes echo through the sounds of springs and rivers.
Can I ignore the call to sleep so as to slip
into the world where familiar arms are waiting?
Some feel the ache of want
unfold in the dark above the need
which pulls at the light-lined thread of things unseen.
You can leave the fields of golden wheat,
you can leave before the painted swirls in the stars serve the darkest
part of time and tire. And imagine. How I cannot have the warmth I desire.
How I cannot reach with my fingertips to cover the space to you.