My Drawing Man
In the season of marigolds her love
Is to the clouds and beyond, as he
Leaves her no choice but to spot
Him for a safe haven; then how
Can she loll or even just close
Her orb when all she descries
Is her oasis whenever she is
Relenting, whenever her blink
Whispering, her glimmer ebbing
Away, whenever she is easing off;
Is there discord, distress in the tenor
Then why does she feel that offhand
Bond as if all the planet is conniving
To couple her with her weather vane,
Her subliminal lamp, giving her soul
Kisses behind the scenes, on the quiet.