There is a sweet relief these days
To let the others speak the words,
To watch the sun turn into ice, and ice to rain, and rain to snow,
And not to put them in the prison of my mind,
Not cage the wild ideas that hiss at me and fly
And hold them in the sweaty palm of my control.
There is no ready turn of phrase
To hold the things that I have heard,
Enfold and capture all these dreams, these tears, these smiles, these things I know
And yet do not know: all the me I've left behind,
A self so fragile it will crumble if you sigh,
So giant that I cannot seem to see the whole.