This writing craft;
I love it well,
but at this time,
It's a living Hell.
My brain is bereft
of new words to write.
If there is grey matter left,
will cause me to mumble
but not to cry,
for I need some answers,
If I am to try
to keep writing this drivel,
by focusing on thee,
not what is now
worrying me.

There is always a time.
There is always a place,
For these words to rhyme
when I see your face.

The new flowered Tulips
move and sway
on this cold,
cold April day.
The Sun is out,
that I'll say,
but the chill remains
and will now stay
for a few more,
of a Winter/Spring day.

I look out the window
and I see,
a three-quarter Moon
looking at me.
It is in the morning hour;
a quarter past three.
I am going back to bed
to be close to thee.