The full poem is in her lips, <br />Pursed, she cannot spell. <br />Opened, she kisses him and he goes <br />Home and grows a garden in his sleep: <br />These lines are not for real, <br />But the pressed ivory of piano keys by <br />A child alone in a sunny room: <br />Searching for what she will become, <br />As bees sing softly in grandmother’s garden. <br />There are bright days she knows, <br />And places she has walked to where <br />There are things she cannot say the sky <br />Shows in furtive glimpses, <br />Things she believes are real though there is no proof, <br />And nothing can be said, <br />Though this is what she thinks of as she <br />Waits for the bus to take her to school to learn, <br />And the days flip over like rabbits digging burrows, <br />The indescribable successions of lives and deaths, <br />And the saplings which grow up in the make-believe <br />Yard who will never move unless coerced by the wind, <br />And then ever so little, <br />Though they may live forever but not <br />Relatives and distant loves, <br />And when the rain falls like piano keys, like glimpses of <br />Little children laughing unabashedly through sorrow, <br />Then as if in a trance, she sits and watches <br />The world outside her home slicking the trees <br />And filling the sky, <br />And does not say a thing, but I know, <br />The full poem is in her lips.<br /><br />Robert Rorabeck<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-full-poem/
