My Poet

He reads Shakespeare, even in the early mornings
When I am serene in dreams
He is there by the window with the sunlight
Emblazoned on his face
He awakens me before dawn, by his soft voice
As he richly recites Hamlet, "To be or not to be . . . "
I cannot recall anymore than that
Because as he finishes, I am already lost in him
He glances at me with those gentle orbs of light
Smiles reassuringly and I fall
So deeply into the mask of enigma that he provides
I am hidden behind the door of dimensions
And only he possesses the key
And knows the secret lingo that reveals the code
He speaks to me when I close my eyes
The words trailing off into a world beyond my grasp
He illiterates, initiates, illustrates, iterates
And I am left to contemplate
Over the facts that fuddle my frail form
He is so fascinatingly fickle
With his Shakespeare and those eyes that burn so intensely