He stood, /
hesitant, /
and wondered, would/
she be redecent, /
like others before/
to the beauty/
and mystery/
of his poetry?/
He wasn’t sure./

But because/
he, as a poet, never was/
sure of anything/
except hearing his heart sing,/
and writing it /
and verbalizing/
and not being ashamed of it,/
he let fly/
with words/
she’d often heard,/
but never in that sequence,/
nor had they ever made sense/
as they did that day/
when she heard him say:/
“It both frightens me/
and delightens me/
to create these words for you.”/

And he smiled,/
because he knew/
she was not beguiled,/
but was fully there, too.