I give to the page, as surrogate,
   my offering to you,
proffering my golden words
   to a white silence
lying between the lines.
What could not be spoken
has been written here
to be held and kept
   close to the heart.
Now the time comes near
when these poems must
   stand for me.
They are to be handed over,
   a precious gift,
not knowing what their
   consequence may be,
risking that I may appear
   a great fool in your eyes
and, truly, I may be so,
but not for loving you.