Sunday, December 11, 2005


Drifting into you, after
all these years: I, the cautious
one, fearful of who I am
and of who you think I am

or might become. Eyes closed,
I could have run to you. Eyes closed,
drifting into fitful night
I’ve often prayed I would not waken

and you, who never heard my words,
will not now deny me this
awakening nor this drifting,
my slow drifting into you.

Stephen Brooke ©2005

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