It is not the Muse
to whom I write, but you.
Let your imagination run wild,
forget the here and now.
Watching you dance
makes me smile.
Afternoon brings a lull,
a stolen moment.
A jumble of legs,
we are starfish!
A bath to sooth your ache,
a plume wafts from warmth to warmth.
I set out to touch the moon,
it looks so near.
Poetry is separated from nothing
by a thought.
Hanque O . . .
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/thoughts-from-the-saddle/
