by Glen Martin Fitch
It's like
we're hand in hand
to cross a stream.
At first we hope,
if careful,
we'll stay dry.
Each step we test
and then another try.
But then,
to stay on course
becomes our scheme.
The deeper pools
demand a slower pace,
until by toe and heel
our feet get wet.
The current hugs our ankles, caves.
I bet you'll end up
on your ass
or I, my face.
"So marry me?"
But you, "Ya, probably."
Not quite what I was hoping for
from you.
"Wrong answer."
Quickly you knew what to do.
Your "YES!" and kiss
soon won a grin from me.
How does one speak
and not soon feel regret?
Our well worn words
are slippery when wet.
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ABOUT THE POET ~
Glen Fitch is a 16th Century poet lost in the 21st Century. Born near Niagara Falls, educated in the Catskills, thirty years on the Monterey Bay he now lives in Palm Springs. Retail not academics has paid the bills. Someday he will finish Spenser's "The Fairie Queene."
Last updated August 23, 2011