Sultry summer breeze whispers,
Cools warm skin, carrying floral notes.
The gentle padding of tender soles treading
Plush moist earth. Pulsing planet perceptible,
Seamlessly sending signals as through osmosis
She is ready. Seeded and sprouting with new
Verdant growth. To feed the hungry cycle.
To give fresh inspiration to all creation.

The poet not in love
Is the violin never heard
The sunrise never seen
And the water never felt.
The fires never lit
The birds never in flight
The lips never touched
The meaning never found.

The poet not in love is
The journey never taken
The path never walked
The guitar with no strings
And the painter with no canvas.
The parent to no child
The treasure never discovered
The book with no beginning
The story with no reason.

The poet not in love is silent
And what a useless thing to be
As a poet.

He asked me what I had been doing.
I had been writing two books of poetry. But since I could not sell them and they were not making money I said what he could understand. I said nothing.

I trace your name across the night,
With solar ink and lunar light,
Each syllable, a burning thread
‘Tween stars that have not shifted red
That I still count each night in bed.

I know you do the same for me
Beneath some distant canopy.
Upon your lips, my name a sigh,
A whispered vow to midnight sky
That tethers us, both you and I.

Our names are written line by line,
With diamonds set to intertwine
As constellations from above,
Devoted to the keeping of
The tacit truth of starlit love.
©️2025 David Cornetta

Follow me on Instagram for more and links to my debut collection “If Saturn Should Fall”
@sanddpoetry