The snowman has crumbled to a giant's glove--
Have I really made it to the green flare of
Ordinary noons?  Do you love me now?
Me?  Do you dream us into bed, young somehow,
And naked?  Then what happens?  Do your dry
Senses swing open like garden gates?  I
Can feel you quicken when I touch you by
Accident, the way I have to.  I feel new
Repertoires come into play each time I do.
Lift me up, breathe on my hair and carry me.
I'm five years old, asking you to marry me.

Lyn Coffin