Poetry -- when words can't be found

Robert Kincaid
(for Francesca)

I will never be afraid to love her,
to see her for who she is:
a gypsy, the tarot card reader,
who interprets the laughter behind my smile.

And it is to this Spring breeze, where I have
found Winter’s ice melting, useful water
for the growth of roses that have fed off of
carcasses in those frozen months.

Where shall I go so as not to be alone with loneliness?
Or not to be so blindly slain onto piercing rocks,
because of distracting sirens? I seek to be near
her who has proven to be the music that hums

when all else is silent. Yes, you, soul of my soul,
creature of winged growth, flap now, dear heart,
rise to meet me, for we are of other plains, and not even
ashes can keep us buried.