sonnet

 

The love I bear for you is not intense,
I have no force for fiery energy.
Hot passion, fanned into magnificence,
intimidates the child who lives in me.
Nor can I lavish on you rich, rare things
or crafted artworks, intricately made,
nor utter any note which truly sings;
my heart cannot produce a masquerade.

This love, however, searches long each day
down winding corridors of deep delight;
and longs to blow pretence and show away,
and touch, beyond the realm of rigid sight.

Such as I am, I trust that you will be;
I lay me down beside you openly.

 

(© 1996-2008 Maria L. Grist)

 

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