The Gift
No one hears my heart but the gypsy moth
who hovers over a dim-lit table lamp,
secure with knowledge I cannot convey,
for words of love lie silent on my lips.
Though laden she takes flight much wiser now,
with tender secrets far too great to keep.
This night I'll wish upon the distant stars, (to wish is but a dream we never share),
that she may find your ear for one brief moment and whisper words my heart has failed to sing.