Mating Call

I measure not your form of love
in rhyming couplets and quatrains.
You are an epic of free verse
that I could not ever contain.

Your taste is like the bible’s rhyme — 
spoken word on magic chime —
invoking inside me joy 
of a loving madness divine.

Your lilting songs of wilderness
isolate me like an island 
in the wide expansive oceans.
The night churning diamonds — 

the stones of primal destiny —
are but flowers in your hair.
The waves are rising now;
the half moon is here.


~ by Bombadil on June 2, 2008.

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