I do not have enough
memories of you
to write a book of poetry,
one wherein every poem
is your poem.

The hummingbirds
at my two feeders
could be in your book
if I had memories enough
of them to write
about in your book.
The small female
hummingbird,
especially,
could be a symbol
of you.

I close my eyes
and I see your eyes.
I cannot see through
your eyes to write
your memories.
I cannot fathom
enough words
about your eyes
to fill a book.

I cannot write enough
poems about your
other body parts,
your breasts,
your legs,
your arms,
your unique voice,
to be called
your poet laureate.

Perhaps
I have words enough
to capture one caress.