What box or bag can I keep this story in
that will not fail and spill, or other misfortune meet
just as it begins to be warmed by you?
Is this a place new to me or one I have already been?
Driving January’s one way highway after December’s three Lane street
has colored me brightly if hesitantly blue.
Before you so caught my eye and pulled my pen,
before so easily signing your messages with casual love;
I would flinch and turn from real affection.
Too easily remembering when
the poet\'s hammer or singer’s gentle dove
still denied my close inspection.
But then the hand of bitterness relaxed its hold
as the need for well measured rhymes receded.
I began feel to a craftsman’s touch, a gentlemen’s style,
some small ability to accurately echo tales told,
that desperate thirst for approval no longer needed,
fulfilled instead by an amazing freely given smile.
Maybe now it is really just a whisper of affection
holding hands across our favorite table,
meeting for tea and background music of the masters,
if we let ourselves keep wandering in that direction
we might see adventures we are willing to, and able
maybe find what it is we really might be after.