That sense of wonder
has she, did it reach,
will there be another.
Oh to honor the parchment
of love in its antiquity
the eyes we well in a lament.
I could wanting my pen
speak in clear word
how is true my love then.
In some forever rhythm
the ink is laid
and the imagined him
whose blood and soul do
hold favor to her smile,
eyes that might find true.
Oh to find the true blessing
in words of a scrawl,
forever binding, always living.
When last I spoke I wrote
in a flash pages fill
with all my love so remote
yet here swoon in the quiet of a silent
peace fashioned a style not so ancient.
picture – pinterest