#27 poem

For today's prompt, I want you to write a poem of longing. You or someone (or something) else should be pining for someone or something. Maybe a cat is longing to get outside the house. Maybe a teenager is longing to get away from his or her small town. And, of course, there's always the longing poem of love.


Minutes in Spring


Enter then,

to this quiet, to a soy latte,
to a dog asleep near the door.

This is our church—
a vacant sofa and a cargo
of books.

You understand that all men
should play the guitar,
as there would be no combat
in a world where soft music
always played.

Pour another glass
of sangria and we will walk
outside under the arbor
where the clematis blooms late.

There is no metal, no broken vines,
no closed blossoms between us.

We are the fruit to be grown
over the summer, the small petals
on plum trees that soon
fall to earth.

I have taken all your daffodils, love.
Still, you disregard my theft.