like the one I climbed called Tor
with spiraling steps
leading to a Writer’s nest
over-looking the coolest of blue waters below
i promise to pen
’till my fingers no longer will bend,
longing
day’s end
from my clumsy, careless, yet eternally earnest,
threadbare bellows
I’ll call out to you, my love
high from above
the crinkly-edged garden we tend
your name will you hear,
as if meadow larks appear
conducting a chorus-induced drug
La Petite Mort 