From the bark of a sequestered oak,
my tome-shanty, my wares,
I never laid claimed to be a synonym
or any other glamor to fame,
by writing perfect words.
Just a bookshop keeper with a mellow heart
and a bobbin for a mind, spinning prose,
poetic clamoring to woo a miss
from the inkwell, scribbling,
of landscapes and meadows.
Beneath the valiance of a noontime sky,
until you awakened this motley old fool
with a rosebud’s kiss to do me awhile,
as I fell over-heals and wilted,
when you gave a hungry eye.
Finding love in your bliss,
bequeathing to me poetic oxygen,
while sweeping up a pile of synonyms
feeling the breath of a smile,
from the bark of a sequestered oak.
