As the bulbs of spring do wait alone, in darkness;
Tiny possibilities, curled against the cold;
For touch of warmth, reminder of Spring's faithfulness,
So do I wait, for the Sun's touch of tender gold.
Outside my kitchen window a grackle sings.
His song is not a pretty one -
And 'grackle' an unfortunate name
for a love bird.
Guard your heart, my Love
for we have wiles.
We appear gentle lambs
with dewy eyes -
Not with libations but with shouts and laughter
I found you, my sister, at Muse's altar,
Calling blessings to me as pen did falter
And passion to write softened. I sought after
It takes my breath -
your hands tangled in my hair,
the salt taste of your skin,
in candle light and clean sheets.
I should have been awake
They warn, 'if it is too good to be true...'
But is that not the definition of love?
Love calls each two to be one
in a language older than words -
a voice that speaks to the soul.
The listeners learn -
Sharing a sampler of Love's fruit,
Junes and moons and stolen kisses
We know grand passion and deal in high romance
High drama, Armageddon of the heart.
Pressed of two vineyards - fine grapes all;
After years in darkness, aging in the best oak,
letting flavours mellow, intoxicants build -
now in a crystal goblet stands the wine of our lives -