Tempest Eyes
By DeVlannWarner Robins, GA
Lo, Prospero's staff was never broken,
Though lovingly carved from tears of willow.
But who could have guessed its essence would flow
Into a heart so tender? Who could ken,
Even now, the storm's grace? My only sin
Is that, what the others cannot yet know,
I ask that you believe, though you'd land blow
Before accepting my embrace. So then,
Where are we left? In a room of red brick
And warmly painted walls for you For me
The gods' ballroom floor, endless as the sea,
And with song as sweet! And yet by no trick
Of light am I deceived, for steady gaze
I cast your way, all through these too-short days!
--RJW 1/30/04
