every morning, my pen gathers
the love of you.
the ears of the flowers hear me,
they joy at the sounds
though i’m anywhere but there with you.
then, like no one living
you break me
gently with a look, or
in a trice, with severing sword
to parky water pools
where the fishing is
fabled, and easy.
and your poem buoys my shallow depths.
and i learn
these futures we plan write themselves,
and i’ve a false face that only you know.