A poem simply sounds the bell, of that which words could never tell.


I heard my son cry out aloud
From the land of yet-to-be,
Demanding safe passage,
Your slipway to this world,
The nurture of your taut, silken breast,
And to know just how adored,
Basking, uninterrupted,
In the warmest deep
Of your loving eyes,
The luxurious feel,
That tumbling spring
Of your raven curls in his playful grasp,
Fully restored by unity's hot seal,
As naked bellies rise and fall,
In most comfortable sleep.
Post a Comment