THE HAND OF A POET

THE HAND OF A POET

Ricardo Antonio Garcia

If I was a gardener toiling the soil of your love

overturning the roots of your heart

would I still find the mystery of the waterfront

as an ambient wave of solace?

Would I find you in your wealth lost and alone

insignificant to the greater self you possess?

I am the missing spiritual link

and rightly so I have found my way to you.

The sensitivity of your tears

rain upon the body of your flesh and sting

for the Truth is a hot ember

gently leaving scars that call out your name.

By poems alone, you wail into the night

because your heart

has an empty hole that calls out in despair.

Empty days are cast

and the Astoria Waterfront is unblemished

for nothing cares at the moment.

You will reach into the pocket of a stranger

just to grab a hand of warmth

and justify your forward need to consume.

Love is a gear that drives you

to search for a man in his completeness, and

the gardener is toiling inside of you.

Imagining

that one day you will meet the master of words

and drive your raking fork into him

retrieving the sublime force of his energies

woman of the wanton arc.

Continued affairs and summers amidst

Has sunken your eyes deeper

for the voice of love seems impenetrable

Dreams only exasperate you

for in these comings and goings, you are stilled

as a lotus on a lake.

You are the muse and I am the instrument

by where you will find your heart

and discover a woman

that you never thought you could ever be.

If at the hand of a poet

I have saved you from these tragic ends …