Beginnings are tiptoe-across-the-glass
Write her something, you say
Now? When? Maybe tomorrow
might come sooner and I may
once Again forget the imagined sorrow
and fear that I never need have felt.
A beautiful spectre did I create,
hung next to the window on which raindrops pelt
and keep the room cold and desolate.
But while I sleep the water turns to wine –
not light or red or live to be mistaken for blood
In dozen years or two there was not vine as fine
no alcoholic nor beaver would stem such a flood
their Hearts would instead leap with joy at the sight
enraptured, as waking, I turn on the light.