on a sunlit pond did float
many an elegant lotus
their rafts drifting serenely
in the lambent beams

This is my side of
the bed. I have
lain here my whole
life. I daren’t
cross the threshold
to the other
side, which remains

spotless, impressionless,
free of wrinkles
and other signs
of life.

I lie like the lifeguard
tells you to lie in
the waterslide:

feet crossed at the ankles,
arms across
the chest.

I lie in perfect
coffin etiquette,
shaping myself within
intangible confines,
cozy and secure.

I have lain here my whole life,
and in my dreams
you are next to me—

I have prepared this space
for you
my whole
life

and I am waiting
patiently
for a sign
of
life.

I am waiting
for the sheets
to wrinkle,
and a mass
to take shape,
and the mattress
to indent,
and the pillow
to sigh—

I am waiting
for cold feet
to shock mine,

I am waiting
for strong legs
to ensconce mine,

I am waiting
for a torso
to touch mine,

I am waiting
for an arm
beneath my neck,
a hand on my
cheek,

I am waiting for warm breath
on my face,
and the silhouette of a face
to taunt me in
the shadows—

I am patiently waiting
for the day
I cross
the threshold

into occupied
space.

I forget worries and cares
The unrest in the world I see
When I look at fields and flowers
When I behold a tree

I forget what nags a day
A sigh, a tear and cry
When I see a galaxy of stars
A golden moon in the sky

I forget jarring cacophony
The discord and the strain
When I hear a stream gurgle
And the patter of summer rain

I forget what ails the heart
With the breath of the breeze
It soothes and calms the spirit
It brings quiet and peace

I forget worries and care
When in Nature's company
Disarmed by her gentle wonders
Her beauty and her melody.

I will love her
Forever.

There will never be a night
That I don't dream
In memories
Of her.

We
Poets
Are by far
The strangest ones
The ones who see rhyme
Where others just see pain
The ones who find darkness where
Others ignore it for the light
The ones who write unabashedly
And yet are still afraid to be themselves
The ones who are childlike in our intentions
But by far more mature in our thoughts and our means
We have to be this way, because being a poet
Is being strange and paradoxical, like life and death