clôture de jardin

Silence:
Not the same
As being lost,
Grave-laid or spent-of-sound.
It’s the cadence
Of the half-found
And their still-forested
Way forward.
Misjudgements aren’t meant,
Though untoward;
They do tend
To relent too late.
I’d wish myself worthy,
Were that pearly not so high;
But I’m worth a sigh,
At least,
Or a monkish lie.
Maybe, then, I could chase
That intent to an end
I can get behind.
When would words
Be enough?
Never.
But a touch?
Forever knows
No such framing fringe.
I’d be the first
To somersault a cringe,
Were it so.
Build it, then,
And mortar it with sky;
Hang my why
In the quiet confines
Of your climbable
Fence.