soft grumbles

I could have been looking at your silhouette
as you block the view of the moon,
its white luminescence
betrayed by the golden glow
of my tiny candle
rendering every contour of your face
like a Dutch painter’s chiaroscuro.

The stillness of the black night
is punctuated by the sound of a leaky faucet
with ladle dipped in a half-filled jar
slowly filling up with tiny droplets.

I am like a tiny lost ant
frantically searching for the trail,
minding my bearings or forever
be gone.

I am a bee
hovering over a flower
waiting for it to open
so I could kiss her,
pollinate
propagate

When shall you grow
to be a lady? Alas, I can’t wait
I shall take you now
with my expert hands,
wild imagination
and my craft

rolly