I don't sleep much. I touch
the morning sky, then sigh
on my pillow. The willow tree
sees me and bids me good morn.
Soon the sun will light the sky
and I shall rise to meet the day.
"Say, would you like to share
your day with me?" I ask. She
is my love, my life. She is my
wife and has my heart. I give
her first a hug, then a kiss. I
do not miss the chance to excite
myself with her beauty, a gift
from every time my eyes rest
on her pulchritude. My attitude
is this:  I am blessed to have
her. I am a lucky man, you
understand? We make love as
the sky turns light blue, soothes
our souls, but satifies our lust
for one another, a must for those
in love in the morning hours,
and then forevermore.

TOD HOWARD HAWKS

if I am not there in your gathering,
there is no sadness,
there is no sadness..
stories of ours, of our closeness,
aren't less,
they are plenty.
I have turned
my mornings into evenings sitting in your courtyard.
[that is I have so many times passed my time there.]

Was it not yesterday when we fell in love?
Was it not that night in summer just me and you?
Oh dear, have I reclaim'd my lost lover-bug?
Another poem for my dear sweet you:
Miss Lover Lady, where travels you now?
And what woman or man have you embold'?
And brown hair, so beautifully brown,
A brown that seeps into parts of my soul:
Ah, everything! Everything that is there
In the world will match not up with your eyes:
And Lady, when great universes stare
They too would get lost where the green flares lie.
But gone Lady is, by morrows of time;
And falls lover's truth withal lover's rhyme.

Art is dead. Poor Art.
Poor Art's kids and wife.
Art, you will be missed.