Getting Old

My story today is put on hold.
I’ve snow to shovel in the cold.
This foolish weather’s getting old.
I should move south, so I’ve been told.
~
Fresh air and sunshine’s what I need.
No more boots or coats of tweed.
No more shovels, my winters freed.
But there’ll be no speedo, that’s agreed.
~
What about sunburn, I burn fast,
a lesson learned from my past.
And the bugs, their numbers vast,
hurricanes too are often forecast.
~
I’d miss the autumn with colors bright.
And the pleasant walks on a summer’s night.
Spring of course brings a new days light.
So one more year I guess is alright.

~*~
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Sensing Love

Her sight is the vision I long to see.
Her voice is my music when she’s away from me.
Her essence I draw when I breathe the air.
The taste of her lips I will not share.
~
My soul is warmed with her every touch.
My balance is kept when she’s my crutch.
I’ve a of place in time and space, bound now as one.
Intertwined, our infinity has now begun.

~*~
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