Storms, pt. II

The storms you bore

were violent pickpockets

emptiers and tearers of wounds

and though I waited in the waters with you

I offered no hand to pull you from the waves

I blew no glass floats

to capture the streaming trust

pouring from you like all the blood from your body

I watched this and I feared to become

your raised stone above the reckless ocean

if I had broken all that you had

like the surf murmured I would

while the wind whispered

that I was not even a stone

only storm shadows

cast lightly to fool you

But then, we know

stones are not washed away

when storms have passed

and sorrow can’t be healed

without songs to be sung

but you have to find the words first

And I did not expect these fresh currents

to fall on new sea legs so roughly

and I’m sorry for the surprise

of a tidal surge

and still I'm sorry for many things

because even poetry like this

can't really say what I want it to

But, too, you must know 

I long for your presence

terribly

and I think maybe

I found some part of you

drifting beneath the waves