A Word from You

The sun was low in the sky and

exhaustion was the heaviness

of your pen; you planted words in rows

One by one, I weeded pages . . .

Hours passed like seconds; warm days,

under the sun, were growing cold.

I absorbed the seed of moonlight

planted myself in your book

and turned the soil where great

blossoms sprang forth

In the sunrise, through the window,

birds were singing; I painted a portrait

with a word from you and read again

the poetry of your life  

Deborah Russell,© 2001

Next Time

Is there anything significant about dreams?

I question each day and each night, are you 

really just a heartbeat away?

Can I feel your heart in rhythm with mine?

Or is romance dreaming, one more time?

The stars calculate a far away place; the

distance, from me, you are tonight…

If I stare long enough at the moon, will

everything turn out alright?

When you think of me, does your heart

skip a single beat?

Are you searching for me in each face

you pass on every street?

I think about you more than I should

this, as I look in the mirror and splash

on perfume. I wonder if you would

like my smile, or my scent? It’s new. I wish

you were here, in this warmly lit room,

reading the poems of evening light.

Before, I sleep, I pray for you -

rest will not come unless I do.

I lay my head down, close my eyes,

hoping your letter will arrive soon.

I whisper I love you, as though you hear

and know how I  miss you day and night.

I pretend you are holding me; think

of your face, your eyes, and close mine,

praying that wishes come true . I dream

I see you on my front walk and this is

all I have until I see you next time…

Deborah Russell, © 2001