Special: trying to be a lyric poet

Sappho,
my aching heart and pining soul have known you.
Eluding sleep, I hear your voice from days as dead as drunken memories
those always slipping from delectable speech.

Your empty fields of dancing grass,
your cleaner skies of sallow sun,
your rocky shores, the brine that lingers on my tongue
your cliffs of crag and mallow,
take root in my wild young heart.

Your heart has filled a crevice
that I never knew I had.

I picture your dark hair
like it were a wayward shadow fleeing gold-crowned Dawn
and sigh for you.

Would that I could tell you
that your will transcends the brevity of Together, Lost, or Breath
that I can taste your truth
here, on quiet lips;
when the grey air is heavy with rain,
I know you.

If today were kind to me, and we were friends
your lute would play sweet music
to curl inside my ears
the music of your ancient time
would summon free, blue birds to us
and we would send them flying from our crop,
would laugh together.

My rooms are not your fields, Sappho.

Fan plunges cool air on my half-clad body,
books whisper their secrets in a vine around my heart.
The moon will never reach me here
too far to comfort or hold me in sleep,
so I waiver
run my eyes over air inside my glass, shimmering--

I touch the table and the air dances before my eyes
like time eludes the old, like summer fleeing fall.

My staff nestles with his magic in the corner,
his great sea-green eye winking, he awaits my summons.

My knife is waiting on my wall
the horses on the hilt steadfast to warn me of danger.

Sprawled loosely on my sleeping-down,
I see these things and many more.

Poet of the ancient world,
I am peeled from your words like a star is peeled from a meager place in Heaven,
and we fall to Earth together.

My darling, how I love you, Sappho
how my feet would abandon decorum and time
to flee to your limber arm like a raven,
one singing just as poorly to a master that it loves.

So much is different, now....

I am forced from our sanctuary,
plied from your safety as abruptly as a thief can slit a heavy purse.
Indeed, such a man has cut my purse tonight, sister
my love is on the ground, to be retrieved and spent for you.

I am your faithful servant, Sappho;
And our sons will fight together,
or time will pass together, sweet
our moons will breathe together, song
and our souls will dance together--
I just wish you weren't dead.

My rooms
are not
your fields...