Poetry
More than this
She’s waiting at the window, when I come in from the snow.
She meets me with a warm nuzzle and some hot cocoa.
At night when I’m sick, she stays beside my bed.
A thermometer under my tongue, and a cool washcloth on my head.
Each time I fall down and scrape my arm or knee,
Mom is to the rescue with a band-aid and a tender squeeze.
I look into her smiling eyes as my tiny fingers touch her lips.
No one could possibly love any more than this.
She has a sweet scent all her own, and on my lips is where it lingers.
I stroke the hand that wears my class ring, wrapped in yarn to fit her finger.
She tugs at my hand and softly smiles as our song begins to play.
The lights from the ceiling dance in her eyes as our bodies start to sway.
We stare at one another, my heart pounding in my chest.
The dance floor is crowded but I can’t see any of the rest.
To be with her forever is my one and only wish.
No one could possibly love any more than this.
We played on the beach all day, I buried them in the sand.
We picked up hermit crabs, built sand castles, and chased seagulls hand in hand.
They’re growing up so fast, my son and daughter, now twelve and ten.
Times like these, when we’re all together, I wish would never end.
It’s late as we finally rest our heads, sunshine has long since disappeared.
“Good night daddy! We love you!”, still sounding in my ears.
I breathe a sigh of content, my cheeks still moist from their good-night kiss.
No, no one could possibly love any more than this.
A wind blows timelessly as I drift off into dream.
It blows across the hand of a woman, touching a robe’s white seam.
It dances over the skin of a leper, whom now has been made clean.
And wisps across the wincing eyes of a blind man, that now can see.
It billows through the small lunch pail, from which five thousand mouths were fed.
And under the nose of a breathing man, that moments ago, was dead.
Then it gusts up a lonely hill, covered in recently trodden mud.
And whistles against a wooden cross, riddled with fresh spilled blood.
A voice rides this wind, softly spoken, gentle in its bliss,
Echoing three words: “More than this... more than this...”
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