Any stay at my parents' home seems to induce lethargy with respect to good habits (including writing). I have a glut of things I want to cover here, which I expect to do over the course of the weekend, pending Michelle's recovery from what may perhaps be a sinus infection.
First, a poem I wrote Michelle for Christmas, which I'm confident enough in (at least the subject matter) to publish to the world:
My heart to thee, my love, my queen
Whose absence I disdain
Whose presence noble kings might seek
Thy thoughts to entertain.
Thy beauty doth exceed the rose
Thy petals fairer all
That sunlight bends with hopes it might
Upon thy count'nance fall.
Thy fretting makes thee fairer still
To view thy furrowed brow
Demand perfection of thine acts
And grace in thee endow.
Whose children's glance delights thine eyes
Whose kindness quiets tears
Thine ears discern their faintest cries
Thy touch calms every fear.
Thy caring hands lift weary souls
And strength and hope renew
With silent, oft unnoticed, acts
Lone seen from Heaven's view.
To thee, my love, whose gentleness
Long since ensnared my heart
Though storms and mountains lay ahead
May I ne'er thy side depart.
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