Her Truly

There is a visage
more familiar and better
than the lines crossing
the palms I place
upon her face.

My wife’s blanket
covers up what I know
causes every new wind
to blow and each
toe to turn.

My sweet’s butter
is spread upon my middle
and toasted edges making
breakfast simple
utterly nice.

All burned off
the roughness of many years
of dissipating fears of youth
a polished up voice
thanks my love.


About mrsorenson

NOT my president
This entry was posted in love, poem, poetry and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.

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