Hypothetically Speaking


I beg your pardon.

Like the desert begs the sky to baptize it with raindrops.
Like the newborn begs its mother for one last drop of milk.
Please, my lady I ask you
Excuse me.

In this whisper between yesterday and tomorrow
Between now and then
Let me not procrastinate my feelings.
Let me not dwell in the house of regrets.
So please, excuse me as I speak.

My love you are like the moon.
Set against the blackest night
With opaque skin and a twinkle twinkle in your eyes
Oh how I wonder what you are.
Oh dearest moon, let us consummate our covenant of matrimony.
Let us suspend in Heaven
As patriarch and matriarch of the sky.
I, the proud sun,
And you, sweet lady of the enveloping night
Mother of the stars, my intergalactic paramour.

Speak I must, so speak I shall,
For forever is too long for me to
Hold my peace.
My lady
Would you be mine?
Could you be mine?
Please won’t you be

My windsong.



[Poem #17 of 30.  Image by roger g1 via Flickr and a Creative Commons License.]


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