- also for Rebecca -
Words are made to follow
where the O’s are hollow.
That is why we borrow
from each other’s sorrow,
lipping “oh” with “oh”.
Darling, it’s a riddle – don’t you know?
Press your O here to my O.
Kiss me long and slow.
For we kiss when we are dry,
though the scribes disagree as to why.
Should we hide our love from the sky
and exchange our endearments on the sly?
Never mind that unseeing spy,
blinded by his own early evening eye.
When you’re far, I’ll keep you nigh,
singing “you and I.”
You say life’s a meadow.
I say life’s a shadow.
Neither of us do know.
Can I have some pillow?
Will the children grow?
Will our spool of years unravel slow?
Wrap them to and wrap them fro.
Wrap them in a bow.
Must we try? Let’s never say “try”.
Rather, lean on me. Lend me your sigh.
There’s an “our” in every “my” –
one that signs every teardrop that we cry,
swept up in the breezes that fly.
Gestures speak the unspoken, by and by.
Be my by and I’ll be your by,
signing “you and I.”
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