The
presence of love
Is the present of loving
Wrapped in a
rainbow
Of wishes we never made
And the memories
Of promises to be kept
Between the pages of a
book
Where a coquelicot
Dried its petals
In await
And on
a full mooned night
When coyotes serenade
You find that book
Where you last left
And knew the page
Where old petals became
one
With the poem
You never wrote
The present of love
Had since turned the
page
So you can read a new
poem
In the same book
April 10, 2025
© Vahé A. Kazandjian,
2025
