Upon my shoulder
on a dark lonely night,
you rest your head,
having come to me, fleeing stress.

To reality, I wake, colder,
for dreams dies on such a night,
& you are no longer the woman in bed
with me. You are my poet’s particular excess

pondering of rain that falls upon a tin roof.
I hear it but it is unseen this dark night.
In lonely hours, I write poetry
about the love my heart seeks.

What more does a poet; sounds on the roof;
have to offer life or love than images? I write,
words; dedicate them to all men and women
awake on this dark, lonely night. I speak

silently to them with the words I write
in my pursuit of fulfillment pure as light.