If the

dawn of my reckoning

fills me with the light of your

eyes the same way

the salt of

the ocean air

glimmers on my tongue

then the night is still young

for you and I –

 

If the noonday sun

mentions me in sidereal

calculations

Coating me in Hesperian minutes

where would we lay?

Out of all the imperfections

I could ever perceive

there are none my eyes could

give way to you.

 

© K. James Ribble