It's a foot into winter,
but soon enough
it'll be mud season.

The cold, and snow,
have eased the ruts,
plane enough...and

there'll be robins
worming roadside,
where be us?

My lips, your hair,
sweet nothings aired.
My hand in yours,
affirmly held.
Who would break this lovely spell?

Were I a lapidopderist,
and you, my study,
landed in my hand,
and I to your silken hem,
you holding my upturned head,
were I to ask,
"What secret pleasure can I now bestow.",
What would thou whisper then?

Our minds meet on a virtual plain,
while our heads still shoulder
the chores of the coming day.
If wishes would, they'd connect
on a coved beach
where sun, salt and air
would finely filter any care.

At my desk I'm reviewing
a printout of your words in red.
The larger the font size
the more times you used it.
"Love" was the first
justified left,
then in rapid success:
"like", "don't", "know", "heart",
It's the don't know that stands between us.

If there be one gift to give
and but one time to receive it,
would it be my promise,
and would that time be now?

Would a lark
take on a lover
that does not sing,
or a poet,
a lover not befriended by a muse?
And if so,
when their sweat
has turned to steam,
and there be nothing left,
save separated bone,
what then,
the duet that could have been,
of other lover's
syncopated harmonies,
forever lost
If one were not to find another that knows how to caress that pen.