by Leonard M Hawkes

Not accidental--haphazard
Beneath old willows
We touched
We found
And the hunger was ours

Seed perhaps
Common root
Perchance just recognition
But then in singularity we
Were we

And appetite lived
Shelved away
Beyond surface life
Only to rouse, to tantalize
To burn

Beauty, Intellect, Spirit
Whispered of eternity
As we hunkered down
With broken sticks
To November leaves


Author's Note: For Chris

Posted on 11/05/2016
Copyright © 2024 Leonard M Hawkes

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