
Martin Eichinger
A rush from passion’s gate,
To our garden springtime bloom.
A body given to sublime,
And hormones whisper back to me.
Humming the tune with the lyrical,
A word at a time, a lullaby.
The rhythm of a rocking chair,
The softness of chenille.
With little fingers reaching mine.
And time to wait.
~ Martin Eichinger