To:
Whatever there is in me
that sights the moon mornings
is you.
Whatever in me
alights in sun, in winter
yahoos it through
the windows, zesting warmth
like lemons,
is also you.
Whatever would, weirdly, if I were a bird,
hook its orange beak (or maybe its
orange toes)
(in the best of ways) to hold on to you
the way that cold days hold on
to hot tea and unwinding to
a breeze is what in me
holds on
to you,
only handed–
Whatever gives rise–be it green
or unseen–
writ or just
intuited–whatever
there is in me that someone
might care for–
is whatever is tinged
with you–
It sings
your
praises–
And, me, I says,
praise be,
oh, so freely
in the we
hours–
**************************************
Here’s another draft poem of sorts and pic.
ManicDDaily 
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