What is the best time of day to love you?
When just below the horizon
The sun’s morning light warm the dew?
When just from slumber arisen
My first thought today is of you?

When sunlight bends grass to the east
And arcs to zenith in the sky?
Mid-morning my love is not least
Growing ever higher than high.

When my shadows all disappear
With the sun direct overhead?
At the noon it’s you I revere
More than I could have ever said.

When warmed by the hours of light
Each moment I have loved you more.
The sun recedes into the night
And I love you more than before.

When light of the night are my dreams,
Still loving a love that is real.
I can love you more now it seems,
And wake to recall how I feel.

When is the best time of day to love you?
No time is better than the rest.
I love you no matter the time.
For no time is better than best,
True love is a love too sublime.

someday i wish to be the poem
instead of the one writing the artful lines
i want to see myself
through someone else's eyes
i want to turn my heart off
to put my feelings on pause for awhile
to have someone else write about my smile
i want to be numb, for just a day or two
to take a walk in somebody else's shoes
i long to be the creation
the words from someone else's pen

You are a metaphor
       Of love given meaning.
For your every breath
      Is a syllable of the heart.

And your words are reflections,
        In a mind that gains from
The simplistic nouns and vowels
                             That speak to me

               From your heart.

She loved her eyes not for their beauty but for what she could see, and that was “him”

In the garden,
an old man sits
head bowed over a book.

And the breeze softly turns the page.

His eyes
that no longer heed the author's words
that once knew beauty and tears and smiles
are dim.

And the breeze softly turns the page.

His hand
that once fitted perfectly another's,
that remembered the warm softness of a baby's hair
and the icy clasp of snow
is cold.

And the breeze softly turns the page.

His heart
that once beat with the rhythm of passion and excitement
and the gentler cadence of love
is still.

And the breeze softly closes the book.