Poetry Year

Fine the strand of gossamer,

fine the sand that carries on the wind,

fine the reeds of grey green grass,

that arc in the breeze.

So fine your features are as you stare out across some future unknown

that I would, if I only could, share with you.

If only you would speak it.

Why is it locked behind your features impassive,

why do you set your face in stone for me,

when all I desire is with gentle kisses to loosen the knots

that threat that webbed around you do tangle up your fluid figure,

you fine face,

your forceful form.

Will you not turn your gaze, for some moment's sake

from the wash of deep blue infinity,

and set your sea touched eyes on mine.

I know I do not have the agate eyes you have,

I am dull and dark,

and like so many others.

But you have picked me out,

and I have become bright from your attention.

And only wish, if only I could,

that I could shine for you,

and with that glow of sweet affection,

carry your thoughts in pure connection,

from the deep thicket of your mind,

to the fine fingers on your hands.

And this flow would become a tide, and then a flood,

and change the world that now so vexes your thoughts.

Let me be your fine golden girl my love,

and ease the burden that you bear,

like Atlas who stares across the seas,

and holds the vault up above the world.