The Caress of Words
When I read a poem that breathes,
pulsing wildly, alive with its own heartbeat,
relentless, compelling in its desire,
I feel touched as if by another, feeling
some unseen hand brushing my hair,
lips light as air licking the flesh near
my own sojourning heart....
And I return the caress as my hand
glides ever questing o'er the soft and
solid paper, my eyes rolling over the
printed pages like a hawk seeking prey,
looking with the desire of the wild
at the naked words, unclothed by any
convention, unspoiled by any deceit.
A good poem is a lover,
a great poem, a great lover,
the kind you never forget.
[written 1/20/20]
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