by Winifred Rawlins
Because we cannot say the words, never believe
We are estranged from the words’ tenderness;
There is a garden where I walk in the winter
When the still boughs hang in the empty mist.
Because we do not drink from the cup, never believe
We must wander thirsty under an alien sun;
I will show you a stream rising among unmapped hills
Which will flow through the dryness of our tomorrows.
from her collection, Dreaming Is Now.
Published by Golden Quill Press, (c) 1963, All rights reserved.