Pottery
I met a boy with dimples and playful eyes
and I claimed him before I knew who he was
I loved him before I knew he was you
would you like me to tell you
how
I dream
not in the poetic twilight or midnight or dawn
but in the noonday heat
of you?
would you like me to fall
on my stomach and cry to all the world
that I live for you?
you are the star for which all evenings wait
the spark they wish their hopes and hope their wishes on
you are the last golden autumn leaf that drops
a little late
cresting gently atop the carpet of new-fallen snow
on the first day of November
maybe if I hold your hand to my cheek
and feed you poetry with a spoon
you'll understand
-MWE
1 November 2000
