Without Gift

| INQUIRIES

WITHOUT GIFT

Poorer than the youngest nun

Whose vow of poverty was won

Before her limbs had felt the trend

Of life, I stand before my friend.

I could bring him in my eyes'

Low colored suns, the steady rise

Of moon and stars. My feet have kept

The mark of mountains where I stepped

Warily as a goat. I know

Grey waters flowing from the snow.

But he has lived beyond the earth

And sea and sky. He knows their worth.

Though suns and moons whirl in my blood,

Though beauties assail me like a cloud

Of golden birds that dart and sing,

I cannot give him anything.

Imperially in fire he walks-

I cannot touch him. When he talks,

His words are quickened in despair

That I would give my life to share.

He cannot use the gifts I bring.

I cannot give him anything.