were there ever words
I’d surely find
when looking round this place –
and times when nothing
else would fit
my lines

troubadour and tailor
source of gentle need –
marked the place
where pen was met
with might

and practiced I
ten thousand times
with voice
and tears
as laughter
just what to say
if e’er I could again

know that you were
listening
or that with kindness found –
rhyme denied a reason
to become

the way to you
already now –
the path is worn by wanting
briars grown to snare
the place behind

I’ve wondered tho
how many lives –
before the vine would conquer
while close enough
I could touch
you still

tis not the way
of longing –
resolved to circumstance
I’d raise a cup
of cure –
and cut my curls

spend the night
retrieving –
as syllables to slant
linen lined
and not a one so blue

weighted in the simple
thought –
that something must be lacking
for letters run together
off the page

empty now the coffer
was saving me for more
another line –
as first you wrote
of me