Silence kills the poetry in me
just as much as create it.
I must  hear the softness whistle through the words,
of my love, even as the leaves rustle,
just as much as I long for those delicate pauses
that stir  each heartbeat with a shiver.

What a thing love is,
it draws you into this big circle of knowing
giving flight and fancy to the smallest word
magnifying whispers into raging fires
and warming in the sunshine of acceptance.

No matter which way we turn
the desperation to close the distance
is an urge that compels
us into an ever tightening embrace.

Everything swirls with pleasant beauty.

Author Notes

Optional
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, a month ago