When I talk to my
Dog, computer, feet, they only
wag tails, blink lights, wiggle toes.
Mirrors, clocks, birds often
Reflect, disappoint, twitter and tweet.
To the sun, moon, ocean,
I reveal my secrets because
They store each word safely
Away from you.

Yet, they seldom speak to me
In the languages I know.
Often, they do not speak at all.
You, weaver of lovely words,
Are fluent in the present.
You are an artist,
swirling syllables with your tongue
Like shades of paint on a canvas.

When I speak to you, I am
An infant, an amateur, a fledgling.
I wish that you would
Reveal your secrets or just
Allow me to listen.
If time could freeze, I would only want
To run my finger along your
bronze-skinned jaw and
Feel the strong bone.

Each day that crystal blue locks
with gold-flecked hazel, is one more
when language dries up like
a desert in my mouth and mind.
You can speak a running river
Into life, so lovely that
I drift along with the current,
Sighing in contentment,
Savoring the cool water on my skin.
You pull me under, but let me breathe;
Perhaps our language is not these words after all.