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At your touch


at your touch on this cold night
I lean into your hair
which smells of moons and stars
gratefully inhaling the scent
that makes me tipsy
as a hummingbird
too full of nectar
 
the faces of our children
not yet born
will glow with wonder
when we tell this story
thirty years from now
and they will tell it to their children
speaking in hushed voices:
 
how a farmer loved his wife
through sixty years of drought and plenty
while suns and stars and planets
kept whirling round the fields
and wistful neighbors spoke with reverence
of the fertile pair

 

Poem © 2018 by Magical Mystical Teacher
 
   
More Sunday’s Whirligig #144
   
More Poetry Pantry #386 at Poets United