The Reticent Phrase
Aptness shall come from whence, reticent phrase,
to tinge precisely your pellucid wave?
Not through the naked nonchalance of chance,
like lightning down an uncontradicted sky.
Aptness is folded underneath your candour,
pooled in the polish of a reflective glaze,
wavers, dawdles, expands, a marine flower
idling up fluid doldrums to the surface.
The phrase, beating its music, preening its crest
against a critical oar, draws at the secret
till the day the oar rests as the wave sunders
and the fastidious implication emerges
a flower to pelt, an excalibur to wield.