Christmas lights through the window blink
blue and white, not red and green.
A frosty winter night, the beach
calls soft my name – to it I sing.
And to your eyes, in glass, I see
them looking at me as I read.
I write on napkin, book and bag.
Your interest in me I see peak
behind your salt and pepper hair
too soon gone grey, in ringlets fall
and frame your face in such a way
that beauty shines; inspires song.
I love you – whatever your name,
your occupation or history.
Speak not, for it would ruin the game
I write to reveal your mystery.
I write compassionate and kind
yet brutal when, in honest tone,
you stand behind your choice, most fine
and fight for what is rightly done.
Your passion and your wisdom show
in ringlets falling dark and light
to frame your face and fan the flame
of wonder on this lonely night.
At last you stand and walk away.
Your ambiguous fire lit.
You’ll likely never read this ode,
but thank-you for inspiring it.
Written in Café Triste 12/18/12