He always hums a bit
of Haydn
before a storm rolls in
I fear for his life
perhaps more
for my own composure
The secret buried
in my womb
longs for a voice
A distraction,
no matter its significance,
might precipitate
disaster
Blue,
or Gray,
I refuse to side,
for they both
chronicle my quandary
quite aptly
Buttons polished...
boots as well...
His saber and Enfield
Stand ready by
the door
He is my picture
of brooding perfection;
I feign courage and smile
into a light kiss
His promise of
an expeditious return
is lost
as my thoughts digress
to the opening strains
of Symphony 45
Copyright 2017 Tina Jordan, All Rights Reserved
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