The Wash Basins Of Your Other World Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The day dreams feathered by its hosts-
Night dressed in palms greenly winnows until the forests
Kneel before the sea
And tell her how beautiful she is to me:
For these are my messengers, Alma- see how little they move,
But how far they go:
These are my messengers, Alma- like tall men waiting in
An unspoken hall to give you these things which
Tell you of what value you mean to me,
The way stones wait to speak with the lightning,
The letters castaway in the glass throats of bottles cradled by the
Endless sea,
All begging for hope and salvation, like brothers keeping
Warm around a fire that bares what light your gaze can reflect,
Your senses a promulgation of a glorious symphony,
With each instrument throbbing wet pistils like green blow torches
Soldering a heroic song inside of me,
While the trees ripple their reflections into the brook,
Like unperceivable tears into the wash basins of your other world,
With great sorrow fearing that you may never return to me.