Please,
stop dying.
I want
to take you
dancing.

She’s seeking
someone she’s already met.

So there was a guy, see,/
who met a woman so intelligent and witty/
that, like Windsong, he couldn’t get her off his mind./
She was intelligent, interesting,/
and, like Muriel, oh, so refined….

What she didn’t know about him was he could float/
his watercraft, as well as her boat./
Pitch a tent and not perspire;/
with one match create a bonfire;
Hike to Rattlesnake Ledge … and higher;/
He’d learned to alpine ski/
when he was barely three,/
but t’was in flat Wisconsin,
where he learned again
to cross-country ski
at ten.

As a professional writer and communicator,
he’d learned of the power of words, and more;
but he also learned to be romantic
in a gentle, not frantic
way;
to say
words which were kind;
thoughts which caressed the mind
and heart.
Because that kind
of caring
and soulful sharing
is a big part
of what the email’s receiver will find
if she’ll take a chance here,
and answer.

If you two decide/
you want a Seattle guide,/
take me for a ride!

I have recycled/
a rhyme once, it’s true./
But I’m much too inspired/
to do that to you.

How late /
is appropriate /
to be texting you/
without vexing you?

To the mom whose child/
dabbed blue paint on her chest: I’d/
buy a new blue dress!

Shit.
I only had to read
one stanza,
one question,
one observation
from her
runningthroughtheparkwonderingwhenherlegsgotsolong
writing
to know
she was barefoot,
and I missed her.

I dreamed of Bella/
in a sun-drenched Villa, but/
then she disapeared.

A series of Haiku, the first sent at 1:06 a.m., followed by two more observations at 8:08 and 8:23 a.m.
I can’t stop thinking/
on an intellect I met./
It must be karma.
————–
Alas, too late did/
I see, no fan was she of/
late night poetry.
——————-
The late-night haiku/
didn’t do for her what I’d/
hoped it would. We’re through.