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Let
Me Not Count the
Ways
by
James S. Wilk
Of all the ways
to say that I
love you,
I've given kisses,
greeting cards
and flowers
and written --
in my best hand
-- billets-doux
and scores of
sonnets. But this
love of ours
is not so easily
expressed by words
or any tangible
but fleeting token
like roses, momentary
as the birds'
chorale at dawn,
destined to fade
like broken
promises. No,
these aren't the
ways that best
express what I
desire most: to
grow old
with you, to hold
your hand in mine
the rest
of our long lives.
And when your
hands are cold
in death, I'll
sit beside you
on the bed
and weeping, paint
your fingernails
red.
©
2008 by James
S. Wilk
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About the Author
James
Wilk, M.D.
is a physician
in Denver, Colorado
specializing in
medical disorders
complicating pregnancy.
His poems have
appeared in Measure,
The Sow's Ear,
The Salt Flats
Annual, Barefoot
Muse and others.
His chapbook,
Shoulders, Fibs,
and Lies is available
through Pudding
House Press: www.puddinghouse.com
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