Live-in Poet

A poet has come to live with me.
No, he does not write haiku,
like his name implies.
His poetry is dancing in the air,
following imagined ghosts,
racing through rooms and corridors.
His language is mysterious
like the calling of the wild.
His touch, featherlike on my cheek,
And his body gives me comfort
with his warmth and tender nearness.
He speaks to me with his eyes,
and little sounds in his throat,
shorter than a Haiku
in a language meant for no one else,
and yet most meaningful to me,
deeper than all the silence that was
and now is no more every minute of the day.

My name is Basho
I sing my Heart’s poetry
Meant only for you.