And, Now ...

Then ...

Take my hand, I’d say, and no one knew,
Where, or to what extent the pain,
No flowers or sonnets with notes to chew,
Only an opened wound, a stain.

I tried it again. Again. Take my hand, pleading,
And few understood the hollow calendar moon,
Or the silence of the daily bleeding,
Or, how to begin, to break out of the cocoon.

And, Now ...

This is why, when hearing this voice, stating out,
Take my hand, that internal echo is a sign,
A season no longer in anguish from drought,
The love, the turbulent release of cork-suppressed wine.

That pouring out from touch of digits vowed,
In my mouth the taste of tannin and fire,
Birds of paradise and verse allowed,
The hurt replaced with open desire.

And, Now ...