How

How,
Beneath this bright sun,
I would call you millions more,
Too much of my whispers would float,
That the pond inside my mind would get dried,
Like your infatuation, when you would see me,
a full cup, bliss in its brink,
And slowly I would be spilled;
Call this loneliness, a friend,
This swamp you carry will glister from you heart,
Empty may remain the patio
Even when this breezy autumn pass through your home,
Shall you know, that this feeling of
Love,
Has remained in this valley,
Where I’ve found yourself,
Not only in these peonies,
But in yourself,
Both fragile and strong,
Senile and young,
And adored,
That I shall ask this season,
“How is she”,
Every year, when it pass through my window,
Not out of my loneliness but out of the tenderness;
For More Of My Writings: Painted With Words

