Saturday, 18 April 2015

Saturday Morning Coffee

What would I do, my darling, without hope
of your smile?
Without the foresight you bring to each weary mile that I
walk, for six days in seven,
in getting to you,
my scant piece of heaven, fallen without hurt,
like a fledgling bird,
as soft and determined, your every
word to me
is beauty,
is sense,
is joy,
in a world where there seems
a thrum of white
noise that invades me, without ask or invite,
that wakes me too early, in yet dark, fearful
nights where your voice,
softly resonates,
calling me to Saturday morning’s grace:
calling: come sit
with the sun on your back,
I have all
the wonder
you have pined for
and lacked, in an arduous,
eternal week,  
spent counting and hiding
that which
your soul seeks,
lean on me,
and hear only
the wind in these trees, 
inhale coffee
and vanilla
as the gentle breeze
wraps around us, melting present and past,

there is only this moment today:

let me
make you


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