There is a pleasure in a warm spring afternoon
When reading words as fragile
As the scent of lilac in the air.
Another time I turn a page
And from it comes a dress parade of images and sounds
that march across my brain
in footsteps firm enough to leave behind
an imprint,
temporarily at least,
Of truths I should have held,
or souls I should have loved,
or maybe just of things I should have done.And then I turn around to share
This sudden insight of myself,
And stop when I remember
That there's no one here but me.Poetry is like scenery in that both are better shared.
The reason that we travel
With a loved one or a friend
To places we may not have had
The luck to be before,
Is so that when the feelings fill us up
Until we fear we could expire from the pain of pleasure's thrust,
We can turn to someone else
And in their smile of understanding
Feel the lifting of the pressure
Because we do not feel alone.
Lovely....