Stirred, Then Shaken
I whisper your name to the dewdrops,|
for yours is the face that I see
first thing in the morning,
all day and all night;
oh what is the matter with me?
My heart is obsessed with you, Darling,
I hear your dear voice on the breeze.
You are the words to every song
I talk to the trees.
I take in the perfume of meadows,
the old cedar down by the mill.
Each sweet aroma
brings you into my thoughts
with a cherished, delectable thrill.
But oh, when you touch me, I quiver;
my senses you rouse and awaken.
No wonder I'm talking to dewdrops,
my equilibrium all stirred
and then shaken.
© 2009 cherryk
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