Tickle-touch I feel her spirit kind. Teasing shape all misty in my mind—
The warm of morning sun
—after chill night.
And patter of rain on skin
—gone blaze of noon.
Red fire in darkling wood
—one winter's eve.
And silver of the stream
—on thirsty march.
Wonder in a distant land
—hard travels rest.
And joy returning here
—so long away.
Healer of quiet gaze
—to naked soul.
Then soft sleep bliss
—at end of ragged day.
Silence in the tomb
—of wearied heart.
A candle in the night
—yet wake not mourn.
The abyss crossed
—with pulsebeat strong.
Measure not the cost
—of grin and shrug.
As kitten's rough tongue
—to mere dusted fur.
Could I be this and more
—maybe just for her.
One shift matters only now
—make her shadow smile.
Around I chase my tail
—in warm of morning sun.
Pwl ~ July 1997 ©

One uncommon Papaver Rhoeas

The rose that all are praising · Is not the rose for me. ~ Thomas Haynes Bayly 1797—1839