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Hard or soft,
Or in between
I come in many guises
Basically the same
Despite all my disguises.
Or subtle and mild
Or very very bland.
Just milk made thick
By whey removed
And cultures added in.
You may eat me on bread
You may eat me with fruit
I may be sprinkled on your soup
But please pause
And appreciate me
And all the things I do.
I'm busy, it's true
But when I've a minute to think, I think of you.
My sigh when I finally go to bed
The first half, true is tired,
But the second half is lonely for you.
I remember what you say about clouds,
But to me they never look painted
When I look at them
For a minute
Before getting back to work.
I feel the touch of the wind and sun,
And it's nice,
But I want your touch.
My fork traces your name on my plate
I shiver into my chilly bed,
and wish you could help keep it warm.
My muscles ache,
but my heart aches more.
It misses you,
And the muscles just have an unoxidized buildup of acid.
In a room of people talking,
I sit and listen,
And write a poem for you.
I'm worried about managing everything,
I'm worried about fitting in,
I'm worried about making my boss like me,
I'm trying to get enough rest at night
I'm busy and learning and working and tired out...
But there is space in my life for you.
A hole in my life waiting for you.
To stop, and be cradled in the arms of the trees. Lean against one and feel her support.
They claw at life, desperate to live, to survive one more year, one more day. Lean against one, and feel your energy begin to drain away, sucked up by the tree's enourmous need, it's desperation.
The sensual, full-bodied celebration of season's end. A fiercely friendly competition of hue and vibrancy. Flamboyant laughter and color in a drunken dance across the sky before winter's sleep.
Defeat. The frost has won and stolen the summer away.
Sleeping – waiting.
...we will all die... we will all die.
We awake! Leaping into the cycle, we explode in leaves and flowers, a quiet hum of abundant life shivers through us.
With a sigh, we begin again.
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