He had declared previously
that he would only write
the shortest poems of love,
his affections, of her beauty
and loveliness in all things.
But here, as he watched the shadows
cast the late afternoon across
this still and textured dale,
he had second thoughts.
There was really still so much to say -
as every hour she came closer
and dearer and more precious
to what he knew to be his
consciousness, that being alive
to the wonder of it all.