There are page-empty days
that I do not wish to draw you,
in charcoal or yellow
or write of you,
or kiss you, or make love to you;
or to sing beside you about lost treasure,
or to hear you, or to speak English to you…
these are days when I do not know myself.
I only slip on loose-laced shoes,
throw my cloak over my shoulders,
grab my grandfather’s walking stick,
and wander down into the mysterious depths
of loving you.
Happiest holidays, my dear and esteemed one.
thank you my anonymous friend!
Beautiful