Grand as it might seem,
the task she set before me:
most men's nightmare,
but a poet's dream;
write one glorious one for me,
she asked more than once,
and then continue to do so,
daily hence,
until all the words you know
have all been spent,
and no more poems grow,
where my love has been sent:
where now there rises a symphony,
where before a mere concerto went.

May 2, 2009.

Copyright © 2009, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.

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