Blood Orange Marmalade and Wild Blossom Honey
(a love song)

summer treats, sure,
but not of what we come to sing

no,
this a love story sung,
all about
a Sunday afternoon BBQ...

she knows I don't sleep,
cause I'm never there
when she awakens,
her worry~not~words don't soothe, sorry,
when ears are clogged
by fright and worry


so she does what
a woman does,
cooks me a meal
to soothe the
intemperate noises buried in the soil,
haunting this old soul
now on the downlo downward curve,
who wonders how
he got himself
into another
Laurel and Hardy^
fine mess...

so she will slide me into happy,
BBQ sliders will stop
the blood flow to a brain
that has not rested once all year,

she shops old fashion style,
wild blossom honey from Germany,
blood orange marmalade from where
I don't know,
to sweeten the barbie sauce,
her living loving way
(I add my salt tears right about here)

if this is not a love song,
then what is?

my ooh's exceeded by only my aah's,
music for her hearing,
far better than my poetry forlorn,
demonstrate my pleasure
bite by bite, giving her,
my love's loves delights

for she cooks love
and I write love poems
that won't be sung,
but nonetheless,
will be our shared repast
and banish temporarily all the
subterfuge gloom on a
blue green summer Sunday afternoon

if this is not a love song,
then what is?