I don’t find it in the loud ones
or those who know they are beautiful
and radiate like magnolias, balancing on
their fat glossy leaf
I don’t find it in the gregarious
on stage damp with sweat and singing
like they swallowed the world
I walk away from the party, under unkempt honeysuckle
trail scent into chimera dusk
where unseen obsidian birds coo from invisible fortress
night opening her accordion skirts wide and bidden
like a grand entertainer with no need for language
you share more with this bruised ripening world
with your carefully embroidered sorrow
and your kind half mended heart
an imperfect radiance
it is your quiet and your humility
the way you do not seek attention
but might say to me as we sit together in fading evening
oh there goes a ghost moth, did you see it?
Did you? With your honey comb voice
that always reminds me of
listening to stories as a child
without the need for any light
bruised ripening world
carefully embroidered sorrow
Just exquisite choice of words!! And the entire poem is so beautiful too.
Imagining such a companion as you describe, the word “home” comes to mind, my friend.
Nice imagery and wise thoughts