To Her, So Full of Doubt

My love has eyes,

But cannot see how I can be lost in them,

Small hands, not delicate, but strong,

Are somehow seen as weakness.

But I know them to be capable,

I know that those hands 

have great works they have done.

And good works yet to do.

A heart that beats off kilter,

But still has room for all the small things,

The leanest things find shelter there,
And take succor from her kindness

And the words she mastered,

Send me reeling, plucking all

my ivory-tower heartstrings
with the tripping of her tongue.

She is all those things to me,
her glasses at the tip of her nose,
her hand on mine, her other 

prying open Thurber.

She speaks of Rex.
She speaks of fables
of medicines and treatments,
But every word means "love"

Poem from a Sick Bed

Poem from a Sick Bed

Here I sit In a place of misery Poked and prodded Hounded by ghosts In blue and white scrubs. Broken and bent, I should feel Worse than this. But I look into your sweet brown eyes, And feel your tender touch, And I know I have found home ______________ She told me to write a poem while she took a break. So I did.