Summer grass in which I rest,
cooling in shade from labors made
is as green as glass from a soda-pop bottle,
its fragments that ride, washed up
in the tide, refined in sand, undesigned
by hand by artisans in Italy, or
the rain in Spain.
I'm prostrate to air perspiration drench,
pleased as I am with the sweaty travail
of brush and pail that made something old
seem new again. But, please, no pictures,
motion, or still, I'm unprepared, Mr. DeMille--
No close-ups for a new book cover!
Neither friend, nor foe, nor past-tense lover
could uncover that other who in an earlier
incarnation received this oblation: "Your mother's
a Fox," no plain Jane mom of chocolate chip
cookies in home room trips,but, she
in a mini-skirt and laced-up boots.
Sad to tell, (can't stop the bell) sound
it will! No longer in her springtime revel, "Fox"
no longer fits the stage when age betrays.
With graying locks and widening girth, it's clear
she's "Gone to Earth," Forget false cheer,
brush and pail don't function here.
I thought I'd loved before,
I didn't know you were the only one.
I didn't know the meaning of adore,
Or know you're the equivalent of the sun.
Where did I get this misconception of what love truly is?
How was I to know it couldn't originate from a wish?
And what is it about these blasted thoughts that never cease,
That always bring that excited tingly feeling back to me?
I thought I could control my mind,
No words would come unbidden.
But every moment, thoughts of you come undesigned,
And I cannot keep these emotions hidden.
Until now, being wrong never felt so grand.
I talk about you so much, my friends don't understand.
Just what is it about you that always takes my breath away?
Yeah, I really kinda really really want you to stay!
I have so much more to tell.
I could fill pages and pages with it.
But talking to you is just so freaking swell,
That I only want to concentrate on you, for a bit.
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