Some call them storms, but I prefer to think they are your kiss
Upon my cheek and through my hair, and playful on my lips.
The rain tastes of sweet ambrosia and I know your heart is set
Thinking of me and weeping that together we are not yet
But soon upon prevailing winds our hearts and minds unite
But more than that discovery, we've come to anchor in the port
There we scrap our ships of state to build a home for two
Don't think me foolish, Darling, for our separate sojourns will then be through.
© 2017 David W. Palmer