Thursday Sonnet: Canto

Before the tree that is the root of every
Story bled an apple from its boughs,
The words I speak to you were made of ivory,
Unsullied by my tides of Whys and Hows.
I do not wish to build my bridges on
The tears of smoke my alphabets emitted,
Nor let ourselves be parted in their Phlegeton,
Like clouds that hands of time and air unknitted.
I want to be, through you, as innocent
As gestures before language, as the wind
That never bore a voice or spoke a scent,
The one who touched the flesh but never sinned.
I want to be the sign old Christians sung,
The word that means surrender in your tongue.