Her Poem

I am not sure
that I can write
her poem.

I have waited
in this chair
for hours,

like a cat
in tall fescue,
waiting to pounce.

I shall rise now
and go outside
to watch the hummingbirds

be chased away
from the two feeders,
except for the small female.

I imagine her as I stand
on the porch to have been
poetry the last time I saw her.

She wore a dress
bedecked with flowers,
red and purple, mostly. 

I remember I said:
“You look lovely
in that dress.”

“Only lovely?”
She asked.
She caught me off guard.

I regret not telling her
she was beautiful.
I thought it best to speak

less at the time,
even though my feelings
begged me otherwise.