Than longen folk to goon on pilgrimages

Prayed loud all night and so humbled over
I'm hoarse, with a slight stiff neck, but muzzled
you unforthcome. April's a bad season
for silence, what with the ice buckling, buds
cracking to leaf, vines liquored up and flush
under the shower's suit. Lush spring sirens—
my courage pricked more, to speak bold,
by those fool melodies in the oleaster
with no peep from you. Like wind the whirlwind
sounds, the many waters plash and gurgle,
and in what hallows ever seeking, I
hear only in granite echo my own
voice: heated, punch-drunk, broken with longing.
What blissful martyrdom desertion is.

Copyright © 2006 Kimberly Johnson All rights reserved
from New Orleans Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission