Winter Storm

I'll come to you,
before the cool evening breeze
brushes your body
and you miss my arm
around your shoulder

I'll sit with you
for hours, holding your hand,
watching your eyes
as they empty
your dreams into mine.

I'll hide you
from the jealous moon,
waning away
as its light is cold
and your glow, amber.

And when you feel tired
and sleepy
I'll read you my poem;
about us being together
and getting older.

And I'll stay awake to
hold you, lest the winter storm
frighten you
and turn your heart cold;
as it turned mine,
a long time ago.

I pick up my pen again

No more words, No more verses
No more redundant lines
helping in rhyme.
I had buried my tawdry poems
in the cemetery of time.

I had left on purpose,
the tombstone unetched.
Reminding me
that everything written,
is judged.

But there...
you came again,
to see if my young grave
has that flower
you gave

Yes,
I still have that flower, and
I still have you
deep inside me,
and there is my life, incomplete.

So wanting to meet you
in my words,
in my poems,
in my dreams
I pick up my pen again.