Saturday morn bedded in quiet,
the days of noisy children invading,
decades back
so we lay together blessed and blissed

Me, drafting words into ship shapes,
She, perusing boots pocketbooks and
A line dresses for some occasion

I start to cry for I alone
know she is the far, far better poet,
but refrains from composing
in words...for my sake

she says soft,
while drinking my tears and comforting,

*"helping you to compose,
giving you peace of soul,
and verdant happiness,
my darling,
is more than enough"