Sleep is hard to obtain.
The night is bright
with a moon that silvers my curtains.
But I think of other beauty.
Of things to be
and things that might be.
My answer
Her reply
always she replies.
Never she answers.
Never I ask.
Perhaps she thinks of me.
Perhaps not.
*
Galaxies swirl
stirred by God’s finger.
A planet soup
and he gives me a small want.
For her.
For the fragile hand
that I may squeeze too hard.
How I wish to spoil her
Giving much
not expecting much.
I wish for only
a small measure of love.
To have her consent.
*
She moves as a faerie
in the mist.
A sprite
in mischief.
A nymph
in the woods.
*
I move heavily
Big
an imposter in the forest
and mist.
Yes
clumsy.
I wish not to force her
merely to suggest
Maybe we will dance.