He, steady as the roots of a yew
ancient and deep
tangled silent beneath the surface
where nothing else can grow
for unknown reasons.
She, restless as the busy robin
scrapping for worms
far off to feed babies,
flitting about near the yew
where rests her nest.
He, emotionally unavailable
as the ebb and flow
of the ocean’s tide
moving all
in dangerous undertows of love.
She, expressively dancing
in foam of feeling
on waves caught
in winds capricious
ever changing, ever confounding.
They are bound to one another
in ways she doesn’t like
and he doesn’t understand
like oceans and sky and earth
in ancient fires of wordless passion.
They see each other, though,
in games of domination—
not connection
in the larger scheme of Other
who rains down fiery judgment in airy lament.
________________________________________________________________________This poem was published in the April 2025 issue of The Soliloquist.