When I write sonnets of the sun and moon,
Or how the wind is howling in my ears;
When I imagine slowly ticking years
Full of the humid fruitfulness of June,
When I describe the shrieking of the loon,
The weather on the point, or ticking gears
Locked in their motion, when I speak of beers
Turned into bread, or how some singers croon,
Know I am thinking then of you, not them.
For all my poetry, on every theme,
Fiction or non-fiction, memoir or dream,
Has you as its originating stem,
And every syllable I set in ink
Ties to my love by that connecting link.
No comments:
Post a Comment