September 5, 2010 5 Comments
pitch-forked from a private garden
on to a road not journeyed for
a travel unchronicled –
a nervous nineteen, aware by half.
a strand of fragrant jasmine,
the rustle of the bright blue cotton,
eloquent eyes in shy smile,
innocent of harshness.
the slender fingers in trusting clasp,
the world could do whatever,
the days never the same –
a parade of unfading freshness.
what…straying thoughts of a graying sixty+?
well…just straight thoughts of an incurable,
blessed with a magical vision to see
the girl jumping out, ever so often,
of his dear…
(straight thoughts, for a change!)