He Will Not See Me Stopping Here*

My love lives in a high house on a hill
surrounded by lush gardens
and trickling fountains.
He enjoys walking those paths
mid morning, late afternoon, and early evening,
digesting the day’s meals in solitude.

I watch as his large knuckled yet languid hand
brushes a flower’s petals,
pushes long fingers through his own thick hair,
or absently waves a gnat away, and
long to have that hand touch me as tenderly.

His eyes caress all that surrounds him,
drinking in the beauty of his insular stronghold.
A judge may sign a paper, but
he will not see me stopping here,
nor here, nor here,
nor here,
or here.

*Line from Robert Frost’s poem Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening