moments when we turn toward each other, faces shining, the same thought forming between us

There must be a word for it, 

this slow roll of the grooved ball bearing 

as it rises in its slot, this intricate 

mechanism of the earth turning 

within the celestial clock. 

And there must be a word for it, 

this gathering of a gilded tide within us, 

the heart ascending and going forth 

to meet the molten spill rushing 

toward us over the black waters, 

the swell flashing as it lifts. 

And there must be a word for it, 

or at least should be a word for it, 

the tongue locked against the teeth just so, 

the triggering click and release of breath 

like a wave breaking, a word 

that is the word for it and for the feeling itself, 

just as there should be a word 

for these moments when we turn 

toward each other, faces shining, the same 

thought forming between us. 

Should be a word, but there is none, 

unless it is the word the voice out there 

keeps whispering again and again. 

And so we sit and watch the moon 

climb the sky and listen to the low surf 

work the grain of sand under its tongue, 

as if some day there might issue forth 

a pearl, an opalescent, perfectly round 

and smooth, perfectly apt word for it all. 

 

[Richard Broderick, 'Moonrise over Lake Michigan', from 33 Minnesota Poets]