Elizabeth

Elizabeth, yes that name has spoken through my heart of power I've heard the name in a thousand hymns and seen the face a trillion times through a thorny bush or some velvet flower. And the miles of difference from Roman Greece to Paris France of the Eiffel Tower is so little compared to the name I have thought. And so long have you been called that word Elizabeth, the word that drowns me in a deep brook of the forbidden woods, that name that explodes to my tongue whenever said, That word that's forever longed to lie aside of my own death bed. So when I seek upon a silver star of moonless night, or the rivers that forecast the silky sand a wetness to its texture or the ways I look upon the day, the night and its own mixture of sunrise and sunset, has the name been spoken followed within the wind. And I ask why the word Elizabeth follows like a cat to a fly? I've sought to look at the classic face of Elizabeth but no 'hello' nor 'goodbye'? Just that silent word who strictly follows on by.