I could write such beautiful poetry about you
I could write about how your eyes sparkle when you get excited
Or about how your arms feel when they are holding on to me
I could write about your jawline that could cut glass
Or your collarbones that could hold oceans
I could write about your elegant hands and how they feel when they caress my arm
How they touch me the same way an art collector touches a painting
Slowly and cautiously
Like they aren't supposed to be there
I could write about the way your eyes follow me when I walk
Or how your arms always find their way around me
I could write about the time you held me up
And how I let you
I could do it
It'd be so easy
It'd be so easy about the night we spent laying in the park looking at the stars
Or about the time we first met when you decided holding hands is the best way to travel
About how you rolled down a hill with me a couple hours after it rained
And you gave me your sweater because I was cold afterward
I could write about all of it
But I won't
Because you are with a girl that puts hearts in your eyes
With someone that you feel comfortable and safe with
Even though you are under appreciated
Even though she leaves you in need of validation
Even though I'm pretty sure she is going to cheat on you
I won't write about the chemistry we share
Or the feelings we have
Because you are with a girl who puts hearts in your eyes
But I will write about one thing
I will write about how she may put hearts in your eyes
But I'll put stars
I will take galaxies and give them to you in a perfect little box
Because I know how important they are to you
Because I know how to listen
And I always listen to you

a gullible **** in the watermelon patch
expecting to tower and live life among the others -
with hope of musical days , curious , a bit embarrassed -
lit up in late morning Sun
quickly shaded , protected by the burgeoning populace -
of kindred spirits he assumed were friends , befuddled -
with their ultimate height and fruition , something which -
he wanted so bad
but the "wanted" overtook his sky , leaving him -
quite maligned , uncreative and ready to die , returned to the fertile -
Earth as a lesson for the 'labeled' in the month of May ,
a parable of our short lives , minority days among 'the -
chosen' , disenfranchised from the all powerful Vine*  ..

He  stays  with  us  in  winter  storms
And  when  the  garden's  bleak
He  hops  around  in  sleet  and  hail
Appearing  pale  and  weak.

But  once  the  days  begin  to  lengthen
And  the  worst  of  winter's  gone
He  perches  high  up  in  a  tree
And  begins  his  joyful  song.

Keith  Wilson.  Windermere.  UK.  2016.