The Ancient Language
We speak in ways that words could never reach,
A grammar born of touch and subtle signs.
The world may practice loud and clever speech,
But we have found the truth between the lines.
A tilted head, a hand upon the door,
The way you sigh before the morning light—
These are the lessons I have studied for,
To read the silent language of the night.
No dictionary holds the proper phrase
To define the quiet peace that you provide,
Or map the intricate and holy maze
Of everything you’ve planted here inside.
Let others seek the rhetorician’s art;
I’ll speak the simple dialect of the heart.
The Anchor in the Storm
I’ve seen the heavy clouds begin to brew,
And felt the sudden pressure in the air.
The sky turns from its bright and gentle blue
To shades of iron, shadow, and despair.
The world is quick to bend and quick to break,
When thunder rolls across the open plain,
But in the center of the winds that shake,
You are the one who stands against the rain.
You are the anchor buried in the deep,
That holds the vessel when the surges rise;
A promise that the soul is yours to keep,
Despite the lightning flashing in the skies.
Let tempests howl and let the oceans moan,
I’ll never face the hurricane alone.
The Fifty-First Sonnet
We’ve traced the path of fifty lovers’ rhymes,
And counted out the beats of every line.
We’ve traveled through the seasons and the times,
To see the way our separate lives entwine.
But love is not a number on a page,
Or something to be bound within a book;
It grows beyond the limits of its age,
In every shared and deep-enchanted look.
So let this be the start of fifty more,
A never-ending song of what we feel;
A key that opens every hidden door,
To show that what we have is bright and real.
For though the poet’s ink may eventually fade,
The love we’ve built can never be unmade.
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