Gift [sonnet]
If stars were my thoughts and the sun my sigh,
I’d reach up and give them to you, my friend.
My heart in my head, my hands in the sky.
Purest intention — no lover’s lament.
If birds were my voice and the wind my words
my hurricane wings you’d have, my angel.
With arms on the breeze through parachute shirt,
I fly to your side, our cords entangled.
I do all this to make up for my load,
which heavy weighed upon our first-flush fire.
Fertility is all I want, spring-sowed,
in preference to some unfulfilled desire.
Although your bold volcano singes me,
I’m standing on your crater’s edge with glee.
© 2011, Alan Morrison
The Naked Troubadour 