I can't imagine how hard it would be,
To hold the heart of a poet.
I can only imagine the words that I'd read
Would start with a passion un-stoic.

Dreaming delights and sweet spring days,
Starry summer nights and skies without grey,
Words that whisper warmth and want,
That'd speak of love so nonchalant.

Then slowly or suddenly things would stop.
Maybe then a poem.  A rain drop.
Then another, and another, and another.
A secret tempest witthin my lover.
The lightning, the thunder, I'd feel it but never see
The full extent of the storm she was writing.

Then, at last, through the dark depths of night
She might spot herself a little candle light,
And dream that it was a sweet spring day.
And that's all it'd take to whisk her away...

I can only imagine the words that she'd write
As she pull away and head toward the light.
I can't imagine how hard it would be,
To watch as my poet walked away from me.