The little words inside that little box
Are so important to me...I can't say.
The cynic part of me forever mocks
The rest, which says that, come what may
It would prefer to see those words appear
Than win the lottery and cash it out;
That cynic doesn't want to hold things dear:
It wants to mutter, disapprove, and doubt.
But all the rest of me is glad to be
In love and hang upon her every text;
I give into that portion happily
And hope that there is always something next
To read, to cherish, and to feed upon;
Sometimes still reading when I see the dawn.
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