The Author Poem by Oliver Roberts

Your face does not yet own a poem.
I saw it yesterday for just a moment and I know.
Who are you that nobody has written about you?
In your walk you own the coming of a storm;
you appear with a suddenness that causes sighs,
with your going you create lonely views from windows.
What do you see from your sad, flourishing eyes?
They are the tight shape of an unexpected breeze;
opening from sleep they would each fill a book.

You smiled, only smiled, and trees broke their shadows.
Its daring shape, your crooked teeth, the stored kiss –
in the dim light your smile performed like a shy acrobat.
With your whole mouth you swallowed a known silence,
and with that quiet you loosened these words from my hands.