| 1 |
| Mostly we don't think about
our days together. |
| They flow along in sameness, |
| one by one. |
| |
| |
| |
| But sometimes in spring |
| we walk through a field |
| and I think of blue flowers. |
| You hand me one, |
| as if you knew. |
| |
| Some summer days |
| You tug at my heart |
| in the quietest ways. |
| I hurt you: you forgive
me: |
| You open yet another door. |
|
|
| 2 |
| Some autumn days |
| My fingers touch the silver
in my hair |
| and I grow uneasy at the
thought of age. |
| You take my hand |
| And I no longer mind the
years. |
| |
| Some winter days |
| when the city looks barren, |
| the sky gray and cold above
unending rain, |
| My eyes meet yours in windowed
reflection |
| and I grow warm in your
nurturing gaze. |
| |
| The image of you stirs me. |
| The passion in you moves
me. |
| You are so much my life |
| that my very breath whispers
your name. |
| Then, once again in the
stillness, |
| I believe in wonder. |
|
