I long to catch lightning
as it swarms through airspace,
to cage a smoldering ribbon
with interlocking fingers,
to unravel its blazing fabric
one flossy strand after another
like a tapestry which must remain
as unfinished as our love
each daybreak, though I weave
my years away.

I would scheme with sea hawks,
knot a burnished message
to each spindly leg, and bombard
the dome of night with spectacle.
Then far-off, you
would tilt your silvered head,
sway with sudden vertigo, and, compelled
by chiming of unspeakable desire,
alter your travel plans, sail your ship
straight-away to my harbor.

But this morn,
like two thousand before,
seems earmarked for suitors and handiwork.
Still, I listen
for the telltale commotion
and wear patience, virtue like garlands
about a brow full of maiden's dreams
as I prowl the seawall,
search the horizon for sails,
study the undertow, and curse
all heroes.