So many years since perfume graced my nose;
I’ve now forgotten how to bathe in skin.
No fecund business in that garden grows;
no longer would I know where to begin.
Perhaps this is the poet’s secret pain
to keep the yearning spirit occupied
while knowing he’ll not share a bed again.
With wilderness he must be satisfied.
But mountain paths are narrowful and strait
with only space for one soul at a time.
The clean air there helps poets procreate;
their words the only loves that ever rhyme.
Though life there dangles by a single thread,
from every pore my poetry has bled.
© Alan Morrison, 2014