Meet me underneath the sycamore trees, by the river at the side of the dusty road.
I knew you were a poem the first time I looked into your potbelly stove eyes.
It’s futile to resist because irascible poets like myself don’t understand the word no.
And Heaven for me would be going to the record shops with you on a Saturday afternoon.
There was a snake in the pantry and I was as scared as a kid at their first communion.
Katie showed that snake who was boss as I stood on a chair and covered my eyes like a Victorian lady.
And the music is in our heads as we hunker down and take cover from all the monsters under the bed and outside in the garden.
“Close your eyes in fields of wonder. Close your eyes and dream.”
There’s no stopping any one of us when we get a running start and believe we can fly.
And I was frozen from fear until I looked into your fluttering butterfly eyes and understood to heal we must first defrost and embrace the heat of a new morning.
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