by Joseph Michael DiFrancesco
For so long have I wanted to tell you...
But it?s simply not possible.
A skilled painter could never express
The subtle drift of your windswept hair,
Your tender pink lips, the sad story in your eyes.
His palette would prove childish, his spectrum, limited
A composer, hard pressed, could never create
Decrescendos sweet enough to mimic
Those quiet gasps that flee your soft mouth when touched just so...
A sculptor?s hands would tremble
And fail as he formed the round of your delicate shoulders,
The nape of your slender neck,
The sweeping valley that is the small of your back.
Is there a poet among us,
Peering from the darkness,
Whose words are capable of journeying in space and time,
To scamper across your flesh, and seek refuge in your dreams?
So inept is my language, my mind,
Clumsy with desire.
How long must I wait for artists to catch up with you?