Simple Muse

Bendable goddess! Simple muse to light my way;
I can speak to you of other lifetimes
in which we are meant to be together,
but that would require a patience
I could never possess.

Since I can offer nothing more,
I ask you let me write of you now;
to let mind wander to places in which
we are together.

A quiet kitchen on a Saturday morning,
two cups of coffee and a divided newspaper
between us. Maybe I smile at you as you
get up for creamer. Maybe a playful slap
or pinch as you walk by—you have the most
adorable little yelp—and maybe we make love
on the kitchen table amidst the paper
and the creamer and the new-cooled coffee
that even our sweaty display could not keep warm.

I like to think of you this way: as mine.
A possession marked by familiarity
with your pajamas, your hair in a ponytail,
your bare face—which I’ve always told you
I loved without makeup—and so on these
special days you go without just for me.

And since I can offer nothing more,
I ask you allow me write of you again.
To let mind wander to places in which
we are together.

A bright red walk through fall leaves,
cool enough for light jackets, but nothing more.
Hand-in-hand (I like walking hand-in-hand. It is
such a small gesture to make me feel needed)
we walk slowly, breathing in the autumn air
and letting leaves crack mercy under our feet.
Maybe I stop you, hold you close. Maybe I can
feel the small beginnings of a son or daughter
pressed against me. Maybe to look in your eyes
still sends waves through me and shakes the dying
leaves from the trees. Maybe, a kiss.

But to hope for these distant lifetimes
requires a patience I could never possess.
I will dream no more of these, then,
my bendable goddess. My simple muse.