Why is it one can't find words

for those things which mean the most?

The youngster who has just had his child-world shaken

by a new and wonderful discovery,

Rushes to tell his uncomprehending mother

the beauty of a butterfly coming from its dead shell.

The words are disjointed and unintelligible,

but the face tells the groping parent

of the joy within her bursting babe.

 

If I could, I'd tell you what you mean to me.

But, like the child, my mind becomes jumbled

trying to put you in words.

 

I'd tell you what a comfort it is

to have you thinking of me,

and how I'm strengthened by your feeling spirit.

I'd tell you how I inwardly share

each choice moment or lovely sight,

though you're far away.

 

I'd relate the joy I feel

at having someone who understands me,

to whom I can tell my inmost thoughts.

I'd probably attempt to explain the thrill

of being close to you,

and of the hours of pleasant memories

I have of times together.

 

I'd squeeze your hand to numbness

for the way you look at children.

 

I'd tell you what it means

to have four eyes instead of two

which appreciate the little things.

I'd explain the hours of savory moments

spent contemplating life together.

 

How Wonderful that must be!

 

But I can't tell you these things.

I can't tell you how you've shown me happiness

or how you make me feel a man.

I can't tell you how I strive each moment

to be what you think I am.

I'd try to say you're sweet and gentle

and all my girl should be—

 

But somehow I just can't tell you—

Look in my face and see!

 

Sunday, 21 July 1968