Rain Check

Ah, I once wrote of how you make me feel,
and how I love to make you feel.
Words danced as lovers do,
atop a bed of roses.
Rhymes hit their sensual noses,
like the aroma of strawberries lightly dipped in whipped cream.
The symphony of moans creates a
crescendo in a heart bending climax.

 

Ah I exhale and think of these musings,
as they spark a flame in my heart that burns my entire body.
After spontaneously combusting I contemplate
and I realize that I haven’t wrote
simple words for you,
pressed together in a sardine-can-like-fashion.

I write to you this rain check.
As my awareness of true love deepens
and we watch the years pass,
I run short of words.
The reason isn’t my limited vocabulary,
or a lack of eternal devotion to you.

Let me pose this to you:
The botanist can easily explain to you
the seed of a beautiful flower.
It is oval in shape and greenish brown in color.
Now require the botanist to explain the blooming flower.
How does one explain this?
It sprouts open with a violent desire to color the world
and bathe in the sun’s warm rays.
The colors slowly bleed into the pedals
as it is pollinated by fat buzzing honey bees.
Does this do the flower justice?
No, I say.

Now that our seed is blooming
I am charged with that question:
Can you explain the blossom of True Love?
The abstraction hits me.
My mind turns into a tornado of devotion
out of this tornado my words are muddled and short of brutish grunts.

So I will patiently wait,
until the tornado is a soft spring wind,
kissing the lips of a peaceful brook,
elegantly framed by two knotty oak trees,
one tree with an old rope swing,
where you glide through the air of my heart .