Trying My Hand

I’ve never been comfortable writing poetry; it feels a slippery thing which eludes my full comprehension, tickling my fingertips as it escapes my grasp. Of late I’ve been stricken with a creative desire and ideas for writing are sprouting like clover: sweet and hopeful as winter’s edge recedes, with intentions of taking over the entire yard. I’ll do my best to nurture this.

I’ll begin with some haikus.

The weighty sun fell
Our smoldering history
You forgot my phobias

Your quiet sleeping
Brimming with dreams and delights
Your warmth against mine

Merlot for dinner
Sound sleep before I break fast
An eager sunrise

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