I want to dance to Frank Sinatra's tunes
this cold time of the year.
With our feet bare on the kitchen tiles,
with a handful of each other and our heads
reclining for support on our shoulders.
I want to stay there until the early hours of the next day
with a soft silence and cozy smile;
just us muting the world for this little while.

When we soon run out of music, we'll simply sway
like an anchored boat on a breezy day
and all I'll need will be the steady beat of your heart
because to me you are a mellow melody always
and throughout the disarray of my life.

Just for this night let's sway in each others embrace;
let's dance the frigid winter nights away.

if you'd asked
back in the year
that love was still brand new
or simply held out
til the time
when we were past the woo...
instead you waited
out of fear
that I'm not right for you
waited for the sun to set
on all the passion too
ask me now
and I will say
" you're long past overdue"
ask me why
I never warned?
" It's not my business to!"

last night, while basking in the blue light of my computer
feeling warm and cozy in a quiet darkened room,
a sudden strong gale slammed into and swept o'er my house
which sits on a slab, in a quaint neighborhood of similar structures near the Chesapeake Bay
I heard and felt the thrill of this mighty wind surge moaning, whining down the fireplace shute, pounding walls and roof

Drawn to the door in excitement,
I felt compelled to walk out into this abrupt windstorm
and upon entering the outer side
was nearly knocked off my feet
and recovering, heard the mounting approach
of yet another affront to my balance
the night air was chilly
The previously gray sky was now cluttered with
FAST moving eerily orange illuminated clouds of various shapes and sizes, edges defined against the blackish blue clearness of an otherwise moonlit night...clouds blowing out to sea.

Snuggled in Downey, five-hundred thread county, creating,
in brushed cotton flannel she'd sewn his panels, he's waiting
when down in the subway he sits on a nail
and jumping up, empties his cup on the rail
the coppers subdue him, and drag him to jail, parading.

Stripped to the drawers for a search they discovered the flannel
panel
when asked of the man who had frozen his can in the English
channel
he gave them the name of his seamstress and then
discovered that inside the panel was penned,
a note from the woman who goes by Sangwen de Lemanel:

"If you find this it means you have bust loose the seams of your insulation
come back to my shack and I'll cover the cost of my consultation
and then, if by chance, you'd be wanting some scones
while I fix up your pants, you can warm up your bones
and I'll double the thickness and strength for your own consolation".

Though the note in the pants, at a glance, hardly worth the debating
somewhat cryptic in places, suggested the seamstress was dating
could it be that this maiden with needle and thread
was hiding an inmate who'd recently fled
it was suspect, her stitch-work, a cover: abetting and aiding.

Intent upon solving the case of the note in the panel
Sherlock Dannel rode down to the seamstress and brought her some flannel
"I've sewn quilts, without guilt, for the queen, rest her soul,
and the king wore my hats, though his head had a hole
but the rest of my work will attest to my innocence, Dannel".

And Sherlock, so taken with Sangwen, whose voice was sedating
missed the gist of her kiss, but the point of this pistol elating
"See I'm really quite good with a needle and thread
but in cases left traces of blood on the dead
when my needles were shed from drawers of the bores who were waiting."

The man was immersed, but well versed in the curse of the smitten
he saw that this seamstress was shrewd and her verses well written
and hiding her needles and notes could avail
in busting loose criminals down at the jail
and if he had his way, on this day, in the pen she'd be knittin'.