In retrospect I missed
These causeries etched
Unto the canvas of my soul
From the distant Savannah
Warbles a lone nightingale
Echoing through the depth of the delta
To the waiting ears of a lonely bard
Two weeks to a tryst
To meet the one I thought I already know
Yet, yet to behold
As I await the spectacle
Of your thunderous epiphany
Three goose pimples rise
(If I can count the number)
Which I rush to wipe with a manly grit
And the excitement of my beating heart.
