The Poet/ dVerse

The Poet

What does the poet have to say, on an early February morn?

Will he speak of robins in the glen, on an early February morn?

Will he notice when you come, strutting in your finery?

Will he compliment your new hat, on an early February morn?

What about the temperature, will he be chilled?

Will he ask to come in and warm by the fire, on an early February morn?

Will he take out his paper and pen, scribe a few verses?

Or will he make a word sketch in the snow, on an early February morn?

Will he speak of spring, and the missing green?

Or will he speak about summers past, on an early February morn?

Will he take breakfast, of sausages and eggs full of yellow yolks?

Will he sit awhile, on an early February morn?

Will he read to us, in his melodious voice?

Or will he ask to hear what we have written, on an early February morn?

Later will he walk with us, for an outing in the snow?

Will he come home tired, on an early February morn?

Will he take tea, as he used to?

Will he ask for milk and honey, or lemon, on an early February morn?

Will he nap after lunch, dozy, dreamy?

Will he rest his head on the soft Parisian pillows, on an early February morn?

Will he remember all the other times, we went into the mountains?

Will he read to us what he has written, on an early February morn?

Will he stay overnight, and sleep in the guest bed?

Will he snore as loud as before, on an early February morn?

In the morning when he awakes, will he sit upright in his bed?

Will he remember where he is, on an early February morn?

Will he execute Tie Chi, with the grace of a King fisher bird?

Will he ask to bathe by the river, on an early February morn?

Will we have time to write and read for each other?

Will he laugh until his sides burst and his tummy wiggles like jello, on an early February morn?

Will he come again next year?

As before, will he forget his staff, on an early February morn?