the po~et 27 (in view)

Whenever he was near she could feel him. It was if the wind carried his scent to her nostrils. The scent she smelled on her sheets after a night of dreams. She wanted to speak to him , she wanted to hear him call her name, she wanted to put her arms where his body bent, she wanted him to see her watching him--she wants him.

Maybe her problem lies solely there. She's not accustomed to not getting what she wants. She wants him to come to her like he does in her dreams.

the po~et 26 (winters stream)

She missed him,
Missed his words,
Now frozen like
A Winters stream.

She missed him,
Missed his image,
Now frozen like,
A Winters stream.

Waiting for the sun.

the po~et 25 (spun)

He brought her something she didn't have before. Or maybe she did and had let it slip away. She searched her memories for record of anything similar. She was sure he knew he had spun his web of deceit.

He knew he had her. Now she wondered what next?

the po-et 24 (sweet wind)

The first time she saw him she wanted to know who he was. Wanted to know where he lived and if she could follow him there. She imagined a street lined with trees and the wind in them sweet. She wondered where this thought came from and how it had crept into her mind. It (her mind) had been locked for so long. She watched him walk across the floor and listened to his voice rattle the walls. He stirred her within. She attempted to contain her fascination. She attempted to tame her curiosity. But it crept out of the box just as it had crept in.

She found him sitting alone his silhouette a shield from the world. She wanted to invade this world. She searched for the opening to the place holding his thoughts, the ramblings roaming every corner--blowing through.

the po~et 23 (from his cave)

The paper lies drunk saturated with his fermentation. Having waited to be quenched--to taste his foliage. Odd phrases morphed together in a conundrum of expressions. They seep out from his vineyard. His mind has found some cave like cellar. It permits his request and invites him in. A chaser of stories, inside he finds the lives of those who once crawled inside. Their passage, a relief pattern, adorn the walls.

He stands at the mouth of the cave. He recites their tales. Tales of unknown men , common men, white men, insane men, intellectual men, simple men.

To her his echo is vintage. To her he tells these puzzles hoping she'll discern their color.