Beloved,
you know who
I’m calling to,
though I mistake you
for the bird’s song,
the bud’s early blossom.
Here you are in
my pillow’s softness,
in the caress of
a young person’s eyes,
in the scent of summer
flowers, in the way
light drifts through
my window.  Even
my warm socks attract
my affection, the
letter in my mailbox
written by your hand:
wherever beauty
touches upon
me –there!—
as you read this,
it’s happening
again.

Posted by kind permission of the poet.