What is Not Forbidden is Allowed

I wrote poetry
when I had nothing to say about you
and every image was a guess
and every symbol was a wish,
a jab at the truth with a lying pen.
You deserved better
so I brought roses, and wished for less.
In the evenings, sometimes,
I would close my eyes
and your would rise in my brain
like a late summer storm over
the islands I call home
and the windows of my house
would tremble and shatter my glass words;
flowers would be uproote.d and
hills would ooze mud, turf. and small rocks.
Sometimes it would rage all night
and at dawn you would stand outside
in the retreating wind--no movement
not even a bird, unless you moved,
and no air unless you breathed
and no sound from you at all.
You would not stand next to me--
nor speak, no, nor ask to enter,
for what brought you was the yearning
not the promise, and what
half keeps you is the force of
my deep and despairing desire
to be rooted in you.