Etched Love

Slowly does the pen race by,
Etching but my love.
It moves in rhythm to my thought,
So like a pure, white dove.

Forming words resplendent, bright,
Those not paired to sound.
Nor spoken by the inward soul,
Like something homeward bound.

Touched by pleasures of the heart,
The part...that words don't say.
That I might touch the dormant walls,
With some majestic ray.

And sear the outer growth to form,
To cover up the rind.
So much...that cankering sequels match,
Deep feelings that are mine.

To push the pen in welded trust,
That it will find a booth.
And there to live in constant bliss,
And love can find the truth.


E.P. 1908 - 1989