The Balcony

Outside, the wind; within, my love -

Whose weak and soaring fledgling dove -

Does pray, and pray again each day,

That - though buffeted by wind - we stay.

Like this: surging, purging, sipping time.

Grasping life from death and grime.

She flies to find you, love, to check that

You are mine.

And lo! She sees you there, whereof I dreamt.

The balcony. Beleaguered Love, his hair unkempt.

But no: he smiles; he knows the sight.

His fledgling dove, flown through the night

To see her love, to see him beam

Through darkness: the balcony is built downstream.

But you, my love - You are not

A dream.

Frantically we claw, in tenderness and strife,

To tell the other just the same: You are my love,

My life. We catch and bleed, so easily. So easily

I cry. Insides turned to water, intentions gone

Awry. But no:

We spy the balcony ahead.

Flying now, we make of trees our bed.

The Balcony is up ahead.