She is content.

She knows her mind;
keeps a close watch
on her heart.

She makes appointments,
She goes to lunches.

She is not a woman
who can be snowed.

She has known pain
and isn't looking
to add more.

Solitude is her
companion and friend.

Wine, poems to write,
a warm dog beside her.

How do I insert
myself into such
a complete life?

I am a stranger, a monk,
a poor man in a shack,
broken by war, poverty,
bad luck and life itself.

No woman would
call me a catch.

What can I offer
such completeness?

Only what I have:
open, empty hands
and a living heart
that will be true.

I don't know
if it will do,
but this is my
humble
offering to you.

    ~mce