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Poem

The week ends 
The mornings of anticipation when I
From prayer past through virtual doors
Another world without seas or sky
Another world where invisible drops pour
Upon the garden of my heart, and bring
The fragrance of refreshing day, and chase
The pain of wait or distance while I cling
To electronic thoughts and dream your face.

The weekend begins
The long hours of lonely separation, and we
Apart held twain only by a string of faith
That in his presence none can be lonely
Only the impatience no grace consecrate
For once again I learn loyalty to one I do not see
And keep my heart open like a country gate
Yawning for every drop of misty flowers and beauty
Time shuttles dreams while still I wait.

The week starts
For me one day too late, for your coming I pine
To hear your voice, taste the nectar of your lips
Feel the flesh that frame your face, the soft line
And swollen comb where sweet the honey drips
How softly from shoulder down the moonlight falls
Leaving us naked, vulnerable in the bare light
Where our breaths are tides. Something sweet enthralls
Me, and I cannot push back the day into night

The week keeps
The cycle of my heart in little chains of hours 
And I endure each pulse and passing of the stars
Find my escape among the falling bloom of lowers
And ever moan like tides against the stony bars.
I am discontented to think and yet never to be sure
About your state of comfort or happiness
To dream of joy and languish, but cannot give you more
To edge my faith that always you are blessed.

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