Halfway there
She bought a book and placed her marker,
Not just anywhere, but in the center.
The book of matching color to her sweater,
The scarf of matching color to her marker.
Reading only to it’s center, then moving on,
Different book, different scarf, different sweater,
Different marker, but always to it’s center.
Not knowing it’s change, ending, or just a beginning,
Taking no note of the numbered page, even or odd,
Such as her life is, is it ever ending?
Why change now, but to find her match,
To read from his lips to hers,
The other half, ah!…the perfect match.
©2005, Ron Globe
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Do dwarfs lay eggs?
A beautiful piece of writing.
Thank you!
Egg only hatches
Of prefect loves
Of prefect machs
Of perfect scarfs
Of prefect markers
Of prefect dwarfs!
And thank you very much too!
I read some of your's too, and I like the rythm in you style, and a couple made me think, "WOW", it really said what it meant.
Thank you, Ron
It's nice to give thought, to the thought of what made us first fall in love with poetry, and not to abuse it.