0318 Five Poem by Michael Shepherd
0318 Five
Five fingers touching
in the warmth of night;
five toes walking you
when your back feels tight;
five senses yearning
in the half-filled bed;
five times memory
both alive and dead.
The count is right, five syllables, for every line! The poems flows well too. As everything you do always seems to. ; -) Envieusement votre, R.
Short, but complete. Who could ask for more, Michael? Well said, as always.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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4/23/2024 11:33:22 PM # 1.0.0.1119
Very nice, but I would've preferred even a fifth five to round it out.