Sometimes we think we know the world and all that dwells within,
perhaps we think we just aren’t loved and that is such a sin.
Not in ways of holy books or idols on the shelf,
but a sin against your own esteem, for we need to love our self.
How could one stand in a pleasant place, where love gives off a glow,
and still be heard to say, they really do not know.
Love is in the food we eat and how it is prepared
love is in the rooms we share and how another cared.
Love is in the time we have though often not enough,
love is in the hours no matter, smooth or tough.
Puppies too have loved you without ever saying so,
Yet here I am a simple man, who never lets you know.
I give in the ways I understand and sometimes they are weak
When I know that as a woman its loving words you seek.
So here it is on paper, it is the way I am
A simple little poet, not worth green eggs and ham.
But even though my words are poor and pockets full of air,
You must feel after many years, the poet does really care.
WHC