Your face will occasion the spaces
wherever I delay – prosaic places:
the sofa, the hall, the breakfast table
when slow new sun ascends in palette
of light against dark, you are with me,
observing the glowing morning,
sipping and smiling over coffee.
You, My Love, are always near,
for you are ever in reverie here.

Your arrival surprises me
at market among the rows
of pears and bright strawberries,
crates of crimson radiance,
and the hard and fragrant weights of apples,
their round and reddening-ember
emblems of autumn in bins.
You offer to buy some for me.
The curve of your hand falls over one
like white plumeria petal.
Unpredicted you appear,
For you are ever in reverie here.

When I pause at the park’s entrance,
piqued by inscrutable sculpture there,
you are on my arm again,
curious also at its
strange silver spades and towering contour,
the upward angled language of it,
its high iron hieroglyph.
You draw me close and joke
of Freud in girlish murmurs, your
quickened persistence of whimsy.
Your drollery will still adhere
For you are ever in reverie here.

Ever lovely, ever dear,
are ruminations I revere;
senses of you persevere,
for you are ever in reverie here.

© Eric Robert Nolan 2024

Photo credit: Ashley Campbell, CC BY 2.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0&gt;, via Wikimedia Commons