by D.A. Cooper

Sometimes I hear your voice, conveyed, it seems,
on wafting wind or on a gurgling stream,
out in the woods, far from the buzzing towns.
Come back to me before I drown.
Why did you go? I long for your embrace.
Without your touch my life is packed
with raucous noise, the stillness cracked.
I miss your gentle touch, your calming grace.

They say, in the beginning was the word,
but then, before a single sound was heard,
you were—the cold womb of the world from which
all hurtled forth at fever pitch.
O sweet progenitor, come back to me!
I’ve searched for you—you know I’ve tried.
I beg you, tell me where you hide.
Like Orpheus, I make grand plans to see

if reunited we in life can be.
But, like the lyrist, my deficiency
is my impatient, overeager mind.
I seek you out, but ever find
that when I say your name, you disappear—
back to that lifeless land where Hades
rules over all the quiet shades—
once here, now footsteps fading in my ear.

D.A. Cooper is a poet from Texas. His original poetry and translations have also recently appeared in Autumn Sky Poetry Daily, Forgotten Ground Regained, Modern Age, and New Verse Review.