As I write my name in the snow
I wonder if you remember me
and I shine from warmth of unexpected love
I wonder how many others have
carved your name in oak trees
with knives like my own?
With sonnet-slumbering oaths
to the world, I ask not
what to do with the winter’s
edge on your voice, icicles
sparkling verbiage at me like
you know what it is to be mine!
Love is not about the Right of All
being stark raving mad. It is about
the rendering of music to the sound
of the thudding heart.
COPYRIGHT BRUCE E SAUNDERS 2017