Infracaninophile Poem by Herbert Nehrlich

I would feed you, sweet
our homebaked bread
and make you coffee
the way you like it.
No sugar, skinny, flat.

We would sit by
the bay window
and enjoy
watching
the butterflies,
looking in on us,
with their curious eyes.

The robins
at the south fence
are singing and
the little green frog
still lives under the rhubarb stalks,

Life, in all its beauty,
and with its sunshine
reflected in the puddles
left by last night's rain,
life does go on
and it returns to us
what we are willing to give,
give to each other,
our love for ourselves,
being as deep as
the love for
what we are now calling
our significant other.

Yes, it is, indeed,
the significance of
your soul that has
tied our hearts together,
between your breasts
and my hairy chest,
with strings willingly
and lovingly applied.

And may I express
that I can match
what is visible
in the still waters of
your eyes, my gaze
immerses into yours
and drinks of
the sweet nectar that is you.

There is silence surrounding
yet we hear the music of
well-crafted violins
inside our drum,
its rhythmic beat
a symbol of
an orchestra made for
enduring feats,
and,
when you speak
the steam above our mugs subsides,
it briefly changes course
yet leaves your beauty unobscured
and just for me.

I rise
to place
a log of cherrywood
into the fireplace,
it can be chilly
in these early Autumn days,
the flame excites itself
and rises high,
the moment of a phoenix dream,
and it now settles,
burning low
and lighting up
the portrait of the day
when we relived the miracle
of the thirteenth,
the day when kindly gods
let two such kindred souls
cross on a path
of laughter by the sea,
a mirror of impatient waves
that will return again
until the other takes its place.

Yes I remember now,
we smile just as my thought is born
and flies to you,
it lands with gentleness
and now you look at me,
mischievous dimple on your cheek,
the left is open now like petals
of a flower picked in Rome,

you take my hand and
place it on your cheek,
your tongue erases lines
and soothes memories of toil,
of distant pain and hatred
hurled with sudden force
by those who could not feel
or comprehend that there can be
a drummer who will play for only two,
and that his sounds are heard by all....
I do, I do.

We wake
from early morning,
prepared to dance,
and talk about today,
what it may bring,
the garden has its
greenery and plans,
a breeze arrives
in leisure from the Bay.

The paper boy, too quick,
he races by,
I hear you, LOVE,
I'm taking out the pie.
Your puzzle will not wait,
Tuesday's is new,
and I will help you if you
give me a small clue.

(I see her still,
as we meandered down the aisle) .....
what dear, is an..... INFRACANINOPHILE?