Email Poem

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Poem


it’s only love after all; maybe a wish.

it all seems at times so childish.

“they say”  naive to grieve for something lost, 

that never could have been. 

but I always remember the green

of the leaves of summer, even in the darkest cold

of winter. The old moon of golden october nights

the sounds and sights of my own lone existence.

it’s only love after all; maybe a dream.

it seems at times as though it is forgotten.

The most pleasing of pleasures, the treasures

of playful memories: children’s laughter

echoing, the smell of the fresh laundry billowing,

the feel of the gentle fur, on fingers evoking a purr;

the smell of the steak shop or pizzeria as you

pass by and oh, yes those beautiful green eyes,

brown eyes, blue eyes of the many most beautiful 

glorious people that looked at times so deep into you

that you felt that you, for an instant, became them.

it’s only love after all, maybe none of it ever really happened  and

wouldn’t that be exactly the thing that people mean

when they say; “what a shame.”

this human heart so small, it cannot near contain
		
such love that words cannot pronounce, nor eyes explain.

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