would compare thee to a summer's day,
But that kind image has been used before;
Or pen some lines of how you've led my way--
To do so, though, might make this poem a bore.
So many things about you I can't write
Because some other writer beat me to it;
I often sulk and brood over my plight
To live after so many thoughtful poets.
In sum, their words depict the perfect mate--
Her qualities, her attributes, and grace;
At night I read their verse when it gets late
And find between their lines your lovely face--
For eons you've been lauded by the masters;
Excuse me, then, for poems that pale to theirs.
- Ash, Fall 1995