I woke then, in your grove,
Through the bramble, we had dove.
You split yokes onto the stove:
In the pan – the mass did sway.
And we said, we’d write lines,
At that dawn our souls rhymed.
But without the right mind
Each verse ended in cliché.
The structure was too rigid and
To break it, we were too timid.
But no image was more vivid
Than our omelettes that Sunday
We watch the eggs sizzle
Contemplating, then our riddle
Could it really be that simple,
What we needed to portray?
But then the sun rays hit your hair,
And shone a light too bright to bear.
I couldn’t bring myself to dare,
Let that image there, decay.
And there it was, our antidote!
Our rushing hearts too hard to note,
Can be written as anecdotes, for
It’s the moments that will stay.
Blessed then with this sign,
I prepared the punchline.
But at just the right time,
I had to go away.
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