Asleep for six months
away from you
was always darkened night,
away from your face
a friendly sun
that's pillowy white.
A cosy hug
to love a hold
and kiss the fringe of your hair,
you step aback
and shine your
brightest smiling stare.
No "Why?"
but "We've missed you"
as the pinned pore draws
a feather in your eye
and pins my ripened heart
to pour a bursting sigh;
tears; they leave your feathered lashes
falling to hurt the air,
a falling feather's touch
the lingering sense of your hair.

HER MOLE UPON MY HEART
for Christ my Lord

All my favorite love poems
condensed for the heart,
as the Braille of her little mole
read every hour, again and again,
until its Braille thumb sore,
if a vaccine for love
that lives in the heart,
is far too hard to create;
then I hope they find means,
means to operate
upon one such heart
that has her mole
as heavy as a lisp
upon its soft,
and remove the tom-thumb fear
of the child in her
taught not to toy it off.