The Words of the Moffitt Family
Father said when you go to the spirit world you will find that art is very important. He said a person who cannot write poems of love is a failure. Tired of being a failure, I wrote a love poem on Christmas Eve 2002, the night before my wife's birthday. I can't begin to express how enjoyable it was to put these thoughts down on paper.
Oh how your heart does sing to me
and how my own does answer back to you.
The sound of your touch and impassioned eyes
tell me, though my heart's for you alone,
still I love with half the power
of the higher truth I see in you.
I cannot keep my feet beneath me
yet never have I wanted more to slip away
into the moist, enfolding seclusion of you
to lay forever, I would choose.
The meaning of myself is found in us
tracing the pathways of our union
over stepping stones of sighs and laughter
together breathing in catches and starts
that mimic the silky staccato ascent
of notes on quarter tone trumpets.
When I find myself too inward dwelling
on dull cares of the present day
I recall the memories we have made
and treasures you and I have laid away.
I look again, and in the time it takes a star
to shoot between the treetops and the roof
you embrace me so completely
the moment becomes an icon for all we are.
Curled on the couch, through coffee steam,
you squeeze my stocking feet and tell me
"I will invite Santa Claus into my bed."
It's way more than can be explained
in a barely rhyming love song
twenty-three years, seven months,
fourteen days in the making.