you

down, through time,
in journals, diaries,
and whatever is proclaimed,
your love of me,
so devoutly exclaimed,
will stand
as the singular
such expression,
however explained;

oh, my sweet baby,
how you make my bells
ring;
how, holy cow,
how you make my heart
sing,
how you make better
the pain of my prior
sting,
how you make
everything:
better;

you claim,
in your modesty,
not to be a writer,
to which I disagree,
but your love for me,
is a proof much tighter:
it is easy to see,
that your talents
stretch farther
than any eye can see,
even farther than the eye
of love,
which clearly
resides in me.


July 29, 2009, for the Wifey.

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