Michael Burch
The composition of shadows
We breathe and so we write; the night
hums softly its accompaniment.
Pale phosphors burn; the page we turn
leads onward, and we smile, content.
And what we mean we write to learn:
the vowels of love, the consonants'
strange golden weight, the blood's debate
within the heart. Here, resonant,
sounds' shadows mass against bright glass,
within the Minotaur's white maze.
Through simple grace, I touch your face.
Ah, words! And I would gaze
the night's dark length in waning strength
to find the words to feel
such light again. O, for a pen
to spell love half so magical.
Page(s) 26
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