What is Left

Do not trust in words.
What trust is made in letters
Leaves as ink fades,

Bread crumbs thinly spread across the forest floor,
A pale trail too easily picked apart
By harsh birds’ beaks.

Never could we learn of more.
We had lost our way unawares by
Mimicking the jackdaw’s phrase,

Tied by pledges of more than words:
Of looks and touches,
A lock of hair across linked fingers.

Of silence and old ways
Our oaths rang cold,
Windswept from soft lips,

Drifting over lakes, waiting to whisper,
Dreaming of the embers
Of a long forgotten fire

Dust scattered in midnight air.
Unable to follow,
We lingered on, without words;

Only feathers floating down from jackdaw wings
And out breath pooling into starlight
Bound in whispers, spilling secrets.

I give you no word but my own.

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