I am confessing and repeating
(doing what poets have done too long
and too often
and with every metaphor)
My heart is yours to grow.
It will be poetry, for you
it will have assonance
and rhyme with penance
laughing and skipping
behind your shadow,
like a small girl in a blue coat,
so slight her balloon lifts her
off the ground as she goes, so oh!
That will be my voice,
the hopes in my mind,
a breath that will emerge
so light from this heavy frame.
Poetry, mostly love
from a mostly heart:
something shuddering shimmering
off in the water, far out
from where your feet rest,
the sand creeping on your toes,
the sun crawling down.
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