#65 (“As this I write. . .”)

                        As this I write, I know not plans for us

                        This Christmas Day.  Will Jackson beckon o’r

                        New car to smooth the way in fast-paced rush?

                        Or will we have a joyous time, home lair?

                        Where ere we spend the day, my Sweet’, with you

                        It will be joy to me, indeed, alway’

                        I ne’r regret o’r time alone, nor rue

                        The place we stay, my dear, my Sweet’, I say.

                        I love the rituals we enjoy oft’ times.

                        O’r kiss, o’r hug, o’r game we play with toes.

                        Toes tender mine are much in risk of pain.

                        The line I cross when hug we do in rows—

                        On carpet beige, to tease—this much I deign.

                                    Know, Sweet’, that lov’d ye be in deepest way.

                                    I bless the day first write to me ye did.

12/25/2015

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