While My Dog Was Sleeping.

Poetry; would you write for me,
if I told you,
it is you,
that people trust.
Can you let me hide, while you unfurl
yourself across the paper.
Could you reveal your secrets.
Is winter a good lover.
Does the wind make the best dance partner.
Dawn, I'm sure, inspires you like no other.
Do you travel on an Eagle's feather.
Talk to me about romance.
Did you enjoy mornings with Rumi.
Have you seen miracles.
Do you, yourself, believe.
Is it pleasing to know, that I treasure you -
so.
Would you say the sun is a good friend.
How far away is heaven.
Are you messy, clean, or somewhere in between.
What's cosier, private journals
stashed under beds, or front and centre on book shelves.
Does every line need to rhyme, or do you rebel.
Would you laugh or cry at a spelling mistake.
Are human emotions as
fragile and unique as a snowflake.
Freshly cut grass is how you smell.
Was Paul C. Dahm's prose,
The Rainbow Bridge,
scribed while my dog was sleeping.
Are parts of your truest self scrunched up.
Did your brightest expression end up in the bin.
Does the recycling system allow you to
live again. Were you a hush-hush mistress
to many,
or did you eventually get to meet the family.
Are rivers where
you wash clean.
Will butterflies from up above
follow you and show you
their message so you can
teach us.
What, if anything,
makes your tremble.
Will you always be loyal to letters.
Is it sacred storytelling time at the campfire.
Is your empathy the reason why,
you touch so many.
Do you like being read at weddings.
Would beauty be your describing word.
Did a hummingbird fly
far to find you.
Was it hurt,
on the way.
Was your compassion,
the one thing,
to heal its broken wing.
Was it you, who told the birds to sing.
Do sunsets call your name,
would you care to explain
how they became so vivid.
Are you the golden pause between each verse.
Is truth where you dwell.
Are you a question and not an answer.
Could I impress you with my taste in
dessert.
Strawberries, Butterscotch schnapps, Baileys.
Poetry; would you write for me?
If I told you, it is you,
that people miss. Can you rest beside me,
and remain a mystery.
Could you stay innocent.
Have you bewitched darkness with your light.
Is death a liberation.
Does God meet us again beyond separation.
Flowers no doubt, are excited
to sit at your desk.
Is it, wooden, and stained with ink.
What are your memories of the Ocean.
Was Mary Oliver your dream.
Do you comfort babies
when they scream.
Would you agree stars are the apology for night.
Is every soul forgiven.
What language enchants you the most.
Do you, yourself, have faith.
Is literature your Mother, who's your
Father, do you have a Brother.
How long is God's arm,
is his hand big
enough to hold us
all in his palm.


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