Digression

If I be but a footnote trailing prose,

A whisper slanted, pause for poetry;

My humble line invites you sweet repose

In stroke, a kiss, enshrined eternally.

An ancillary though I crowned,

My pride in precedence succeed

All doubt, I pray, but truth it certain found

on page alone. Oh, how to truly love thee?

A sentinel, I guard excerpts from the start,

Dragging every syllable to pages safe

to breathe. They trace your piece; I piece your heart,

Forgotten? “Darling, dedication ‘stead,”

You promise, “not a footnote in my life;

But nestle by my feet when it we write.”