Unfinished Poem

Only with words
have I drawn a portrait of my love.
I consider it:
it's her, exactly. All that's missing are earrings for her delicate ears.
*   *   *
Let dictionaries be proud,
let them enlarge,
let them be adorned with thousands of pretty words.
What can they be worth
when they lack a word
that can be fashioned into her earrings?
*   *   *
I am Job
my hope will not bend;
this word obsesses me
and I will reach it sooner or later -
on the wings of the Simmurgh, if I must -
span by span will I search the sky;
if it slips underground,
I'm the one to unearth it.
It is a word and I will find it,
even if the soles of my feet blister and split.
And, if it cannot be found,
I will invent it:
my love will have her earrings, come what may!