Wouldn’t It Be Marvell-esque

Look at you lovely reader,
shying away from me
as I attempt to write for you.
I know,
you’ve had a poem or two
before and have learned
to take your time
with a writer before committing.
You want to test me,
get to know my style,
my words, before you allow me
the pleasure
of exposing you
to my body
of work.

And had we page enough, and line,
I would smile as my advances
were met with your retreats.
We would go on long walks
through lush spring meadows
as I sang my stanzas for you,
whisper delicate metaphors in your ear
beneath a blanket of shade from an old oak,
stare into your eyes
through a hundred sonnets,
a thousand lines,
infinite words.

But the sand in Time’s
oppressive hourglass
is ever diminishing,
as are my similes.
Forever will end too soon,
my hand will begin to ache,
Your keen eyes will fog up,
and something good may come on TV.
Time will toll on the poems,
As pages tatter, ink fades,
until nothing is left
for us.

But if we act now,
resonate passionately
through these few lines,
we could laugh in the face
of a daunting eternity.
We could even forego these very lines;
If you are near me,
in the vicinity,
cast aside this writing,
kick off your shoes,
run to me
and then
we could get to something
that is truly
poetic.