When Lovely Words Will Not Appear

They are not in the fragile rim
Of that white, porcelain vase
Placed, to beautify the foyer,
Atop the claw foot table there;
Absent also from the claws and
The hunks of wood composing
The claws in all their lion glory;
Nor even in the little panel set
With stained glass above the door.

To smash the vase and rummage
In the shards would not reveal them.

To rasp away the wood and snort
The fine brown snuff would not unearth them.

To mount a stepping stool and peer
Upon the tinted lawn,
Through any hue you choose,
Could never force them into view.

Wait in the foyer—beautiful
The vase, the table, the lovely,
Colored light—be still there.
They will come when it suits them.