Being your slave, what should I do but tend
Upon the hours and times of your desire?
I have no precious time at all to spend,
Nor services to do, till you require.
Nor dare I chide the world-without-end hour,
Whilst I, my sovereign, watch the clock for you,
Nor think the bitterness of absence sour
When you have bid your servant once adieu.
Nor dare I question with my jealous thought
Where you may be, or your affairs suppose,
But, like a sad slave, stay and think of naught
Save where you are, how happy you make those.
    So true a fool is love that in your will,
    Though you do any thing, he thinks no ill.

I wish
my hands could write
automatically
what I feel through

How we’d dance in our little room
to the tunes of Sinatra and Buble
Your feet on top of mine
As we swayed side to side

I loved our special dance
We knew not of this art
but we danced with freedom
and moved by chance


Andrus