photo: ralph murre
On Lake Butte des Morts
by Gary C. Busha
She speaks through her beauty
unaware her silence is perfect language,
while I speak careless rivers.
My voice penetrates her innocence,
lingers blatantly in ephemeral silence.
She watches lake waves ebb
against the rocky shore.
She sighs as we walk the wood dock,
while the wind flattens her blouse to breasts.
She had known all she wanted to know
about me from my very first word.
~ first published in the Wisconsin Poets' Calendar