With whispers soft, scarce an inkling —
as brief as ever, or any — our fling,
streams of new thought come flooding in;
each sensuous syllable is savored, when
at longest last, spilling over the tongue
yielding such words as gracelessly flung,
yet never mind you these rushed fingertips
reaching far past my parched, greedy lips
quenching this thirst in impetuous bursts.
Oh, linger but one moment more
that I might breathe, to sing, to score
how suddenly we meet again,
my fickle, wild, my bewitching poem.

~mb, August 2018