The touch of your hand, I crave, so light on mine
and so heavy with lovely meaning. Must I decline
the sweet invitation of your hesitant eyes, those blue
pools alight, so rarely, as I lean in so close to you?
They're too deep to escape, I think--and that is fine.
The hush of our home like the misty breath of a shrine
draws me in dreams. I long to curl around you like a vine
and relish that, forever and always, it is gloriously new,
the touch of your hand.
Someday, I pray soon, with you I'll be twined
when those numerous plans fall in place and in line.
We'll be awake to see light on red morning's dew,
and breathe in the peace of a most foreign view
where no one could see and no one would mind
the touch of your hand.
Rondeau attempt number two for the imaginary garden with real toads. Well...at least it's not about zombies?
