Just Perfect!
We pled love,
he called me a witch,
I tickled his fancy,
I danced to his dandy,
we stayed in a clinch.
In gurgling streams,
a perfect garden,
a troth was made
never to fade
he called me a witch
that stole his thunder!
In flowered dreams,
the years rolled by,
the endearments took a hue,
from the many frets,
when natured served us hets
as lessons of love
his eyes took a shine,
to varied shapes askew,
that taunted our troth.
if only I was truly a witch!
I would weld his wanderings!
to me!
As always, Biola, your writing, your poems, are evocative to the heart of the reader, and to the mind as well.
ReplyDeleteAs always, it is my pleasure and privilege to come here and read them.
thanks Keith, you have always encouraged me to reach and touch the stars.
ReplyDeleteThis is nice. I can identify with this. Very touching. Most women int his part of the world would never be able to tell what went askew.
ReplyDeleteSeeing it through your eyes,there is nothing more perfect than to be called a witch by a loved one. This is a drift i find difficult to comprehend fully. i guess naming him a wizard would be more perfect and a good way to let go of some bitterness and pain.
ReplyDelete