by Leandra K Brossard
I hope you read this now my dear,
or at least that it be soon,
I miss you, truely deeply,
and my heart, it falls in swoon..
I've been writing poetry,
not that any helps,
but I find it's soothing flow and I,
we prance along like whelps..
I call to her, and she responds,
our vocies ebb and flow..
I wake from my short troubled sleep,
and see a face I know.
She comforts me when I am down,
amuses me when I am sad..
When life doth greatly trouble me,
she seeks to make me glad...
We are as friends, old Pome and I,
like well-worn shoes and soft brocade..
I rise to great and soaring heights,
for promises she's made..
I sail to far and distant lands,
to hear the songs she's sung.
Oh Pome and I, we'd weep and cry,
should we not be as one..
And so I flit, on through my life,
holding as a lark,
the little shrugg I hold most dear,
the poem of my heart...
I know not what it is of rhyme,
and cadence that I love,
but somewhere, deep inside me,
it burgeons like a dove..
When tapped, it then doth spring within,
an ever flowing stream,
of crystal clear bright waters,
that then feed the endless dream..
The sky, it wanes and waxes,
while the sun doth bright unfurl,
they reach the otherside and,
by compunction, cease to twirl...
They hang, bright shining, golden,
as though upon a whim,
and seek my thoughts and wishes
before they spin again..
I bade them on, and so we danced,
to the song Creation sings,
and then, by dawns light singing,
the spell falls from broken wings..
I hung my head and scuffed a foot
as solemness descended,
I trudged my poor broken heart home
while I felt, thus, emptyhanded..
I took my somber self to sleep,
without much hope for day.
And was surprised when I awoke
and found my heart was gay..
The sun itself, had come again,
to lift my gloomy cloud,
and so my eyes were lifted high,
above the stony ground.
My heart, less heavy, bade me try
a couple testing steps,
my feet they tried and found it good,
and so took up the dance..
They days they come and go my friend,
some with light and some with shame,
but our world's dance,
it holds us tight,
and always starts again.
Posted on 02/05/2002
Copyright © 2021 Leandra K Brossard