Do not leave me here,

with warm sun upon my skin,

thrushes echoing in the verdant shade,

and coolest caress of breeze,

they tease!



Nor with begonias ripe

with the late-summer perfume

of your skin and thresh'd-wheat hair,

the scent of you and me

and the love we made.



In blue brilliance above, streaked with white,

I see naught but silvered pools of your eyes,

Gaia herself must be ashamed,

That to all her masterpieces, I have given name,

And it is yours -



Your laughter,

your smile,

your touch,

envelope my every sense,



And as I sit in wonder, I begin

to believe in childhood dreams again.