The best mirrors we can e’er look in/

Are deep in the eyes of our children.

Would you accept

I wish you were here with me/

upstairs in South Mountain’s balcony;/

Looking up at Mars,/

and thousands of desert stars,/

as far as our hearts could see.

It’s fine if smooth wine/
helps woo when words flow. I know/
folks at the Chateau!

 I wish I was
the brush on your face.
 The touch you place
 when noone else does.

What you see
when you close your eyes,
when you heave sighs…
I wish it was me.

It’s grand 
to know what you feel;
when you reveal,
 to understand.

That why I wish I was,
not knowing why: just because.

Thirty years ago,

she told a friend we both know:
“OH, MY HECK!”

(or words to that effect),

after I’d kissed her.

(I couldn’t resist her).

Three decades now lay behind;

I talk to her, and find

those words were in my mind.

But, she says, I shouldn’t care.

The words were wrong;

the sentiment was there.

Then she speaks of “fierce intellect”,

just matter-of-fact, not flirty.

Now I think: “Oh, my heck!”

And I’m good for another thirty.

I hope you see and hear/
my New Year’s Kinear/
in your mind,/
soul, and ear./
May you find/
your divine/
nature,/
and not fear,/
but loudly cheer!/
Happy New Year!

When you’re an enthusiastic passionisto,/
you throw/
your soul,/
and heart,/
and every part,/
toward that goal./
And when it’s rebuffed,/
or faulted, /
or criticized … /
inside/
you die.