by Dee Newman
Though love affairs that are forestalled
Are played out, more often than not,
In prose, they’re often fervently recalled
As poetry – sensuous and hot.
For those who desire and long for love,
The passing of time seems like eternity.
Perhaps, it is true, I wouldn’t’ve
Waited for you so long and willingly
If you were not so lovely, young and fair –
So breathtakingly beautiful. Who knows?
And yet, when at last you were standing there
In the evening’s golden glow and shadows
In that extraordinary quiet
Calm before passion’s impending storm,
I realized, as the fading twilight
Attached itself to your exquisite form,
There, captured in my eye’s reflection,
Was a radiance so stunningly rare
To describe it as less than perfection
Would be utterly unjust and unfair.
What, I wonder, did I do to deserve
Such a precious and valuable prize
And what must I do to protect and preserve
Its loving warmth and prevent its demise?
Why, oh why, I ask, is it that time slows
And seems to stop for those who long and wait,
And appears to accelerate for those
Of us who have reason to celebrate?