As I write my name in the snow

I wonder if you remember me

and I shine from warmth of unexpected love

I wonder how many others have

carved your name in oak trees

with knives like my own?

With sonnet-slumbering oaths

to the world, I ask not

what to do with the winter’s

edge on your voice, icicles

sparkling verbiage at me like

you know what it is to be mine!

Love is not about the Right of All

being stark raving mad. It is about

the rendering of music to the sound

of the thudding heart.




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