Do you know of the place,
the place called serendipity?
It is between the lines you write,
in the negative space where art lives.
In the soft loam that holds worms,
it is the seed
that came from the mountain.
It was planted in the poetic haven
of a forest of evergreen,
just a thought that grew into a poem.
It follows a mountain stream
on some cascading whim
into unexpected joy.
It is closing your eyes
and turning around three times
and pointing to the one who
you will love forever.
In a circle that turns
with spin the bottle
it is a kiss
in the closet of sweet smelling memory
And do I dare say that some grand designer
did not focus your attention
on a place close enough for me to touch?
You fell into my garden
like a seed into loam,
for I had been waiting, fallow,
for your tender planting,
and that is serendipity.
[This message has been edited by Martie (edited 03-31-2001).]