You call to me from the corner of my room
where you  slumber,
imploring me to take you in my arms
and stroke you once again.

I dream of poets who came before,
of Cohen and Frost, Angelo and Dylan.
Poets who colored our hearts
with magic few could err forget.

They speak to me once again
in whispered voices,
entreating me to sing my own song
and make my voice heard.

I carefully take you in my arms
caressing you once again,
like a long-lost lover, singing softly,
drawing out your hidden melodies.