Sitting with you, content.
Arms wrapped around, ribbon around a gift,
I touch you, drinking in your presence.
This, I know, this moment is a gift,
Stolen from the world which is lurking beyond your door.
You've paused for now, a thought on your mind,
Not quite prepared to let it loose.
Leaving me wanting and waiting for you to tell me,
In your own time, in your own way.
You pause again, prefacing your words with:
"I have something to tell you.
Or... maybe... I should tell you
In the throes of passion."
And that moment, the following words
Stretch forward to eternity, as headlights in a foggy night
Bring you safely home to me,
And extend back to September,
When my passion for you started.
"In the throes of passion"?
I've always been.
Surely you exist.
This errant dream I can't resist
Is such that though I could desist
I halt before I banish thought
(surely you exist)
Of you with me, each other caught
In joy. And only memory
Is what I have of what might be
Begrudge me not my fantasy
that surely you exist.
Surely it could be
That you are there most certainly
Wound throughout my tapestry
Won't you come? Knowing how
(surely it could be)
I wait for you and want you now?
You and I are strings entwined
By Lachesis, with wisdom kind
So come show yourself, let me find
That surely it could be.
Lost, confused, I haltingly stutter the words
that share my thoughts and mouth for her who wrote.
A poor excuse of oracle or poet,
neither title fits me as a coat
would warm and comfort, but I try my best
to make it fit.
Impassive as the tides flowing, wit
escapes me, ties my tongue in knots.
I stop, and start, and halt... To my defense
I plead my views are not come to naught
but come from women's heart to women's mind,
These liquid songs my vessel at its start.
This language is an ocean chart
which shows the danger that could wreck my hope.
But it is meant for men who know the ways
to read this, know the ways to rope
the words to mean what they desire to say
and I can only toss a bottle overboard...
Me
Slowly nestled in the blanket's hold
I pull you close to share the warmth I feel when you and I
Take the taffy time of night and taste
Richness in the narrow slivers garnered from the day
Hours of pressure-pull that makes it sweet.
Athens 2464,
home of Jennifer Mottram