He Wrote for Sylvie

Our fingers touch as the pilgrims before us

Yet our words of such are all but naught.

Should I feel such entwinement, Beloved,

unless For you, my heart God surely wrought?

The passing of eyes is a touching of souls

and caresses of lips the utterances of heart.

The embrace of hands the delight of fools,

The confessions of love that span Apart.

Moments reckon the star-strewn Heavens

as Dreams mottle the hard-pressed ground.

Dreams of my own your words hath leavened

And Hope in your presence my heart hath found.

A downward spiral into Ever,

I feel myself fall faithfully. 

Such destined ties we two may never

break, but ever christen “Happily.”