There is something to it
Isn't there;
Something simple and kind
In the putting together of words?
Even in its complication
The puzzle is forgiving.
Who says you have to read them anyway?
This could always be a secret affair,
Just the words and I
Hunkered up in a cheap hotel
Mid afternoon...
No, no that makes it sound tawdry.
Ours is more of a bed and breakfast
Type relationship
High in the mountains like...
Surrounded by antique furniture.
A Chippendale desk
With a fold down top
Inlaid with wooden filigree,
Built in slots to hold
Forbidden correspondences
The Damask curtains
Pinched to the side by golden tassel
Unveiling an English Moore
Or perhaps a Tuscan vineyard at dusk.
Hmmm This didn't start out a dirty poem...
The truth is,
It is more of a friendship.
Kindred spirits on a stroll in Springtime.
Cherry blossoms filling the trees
A flute song whistling on the wind.
There is light
So much light
And all the brooks are babbling.
There is a man fishing,
Not just fishing...
Fly fishing!
The women are all in bustles
While we settle in for a picnic
Pouring over a wicker basket.
Yeah...
It's more like that.
