Kristin Winkler Snow
We call out for love
and there it goes; my lips release
across the room the noun of you,
and to the sill, the window cracked,
it slips out from the binding space.
Unfettered word of love and longing,
unleashed to air and seeming gone,
an echo, ghost of language, ghost
of heartfelt calling. Right or wrong,
the winds conspire to lift the sound
which whirls about deciduous trees
and tangles up in complex forms
of branches, leaves and density.
But language frees itself and flies
though wingless, breathless--strength alone
in being thought empowered by soul.
And there it goes, among the clouds,
conspirators too, imposing wet
and freezing, batterers that exhaust
until the utterance falls with rain,
succumbing to the fate of drops
that have no life but drowning.
But there you stand, those miles away,
precisely under the message,
your face turned up, mouth open,
an answer at the ready.