The Sharing Space

My time,
the time
within my head,
what my heart measures
of your visits here,
is time that beats
in pleasure
queer to your arrival;
that time is time
that lingers near,
that stays for you;
and could the trees
bestow their swaying
patient treasures
seeing through the gloam,
would more than
needles leaves and loam
lay before your feet.
They would sing
for me alone
who cannot greet or raise
his smallish voice;
for he is only one,
a muted witness to
the beating of his heart
that moves in
time and distance,
parted or flown,
and God’s permission
to declare and own.
If you divine
a poet’s voice
it’s mine,
and rhyme and reason
and rhythm chime
his momentary life,
the best of his
to mold or take
is yours to
shape and fold
in damp desire.
Though raging fire
may not speak,
the muted heart attests.
And you must know,
the only lamp he sought,
in you was found to rest.
If he could shift
his place and time,
drifting with your own,
then two would land
and never leave
the sharing space,
the place that
he calls home.