The Song of Solomon haunts my inner eye
Imprinted I imagine my beloved...but am I his?
Weak I stand, yearning to find the strength
To resist my weakness, yet to deny my longing
Is as wasteful as allowing honey to dry in the hot, August sun
Hardening in the delicate combs to gel inedible.

Where was his voice, his embrace, an apple to help me forget
When I was sick from love? My comfort was empty fields
abandoned by the fox, among the rocks, nests were empty of doves
and grapes hung sad from their withered vines, long past ripeness.
I see his shadow that once sheltered me has receded in invisible depths.
His once sweet voice that called me
is now silent in the orchard of winter.

To wait for his open hand is to wait for the moon to fall...
But wait...will the moon fall low enough for me to reach out
and accept it?
The words of Solomon create in me the need to believe
When he does speak to me, to follow his lead and see
he will never leave my side in the soft meadows of cotton and silk.
Honey will return to flow, sweet and pure...
Solomon will sing to me once more.