love is a many freckled thing…

Like an epiphany of unexpected grace,

I find much beauty in a lovely freckled face.

She may be Russian, she may be French,

she may live in a glen, or near a stone bench.

A work of art the master defines,

she may be a princess in one of our minds-

For I am not ashamed, I’ll freely admit,

I’d rather look at freckles, than freely submit

to a life with no spots, to a life with no form,

or no interesting patch of freckled decorum.

so far I will travel, so far will I roam

and hunt for the elusive, even far from my home,

But one day I’ll find her, and one day she’ll find me

freckled Scottish or Irish, or a wench from the sea…

So if you don’t mind, Friend, if you don’t care,

I’ll hang out my shingle,  for one who looks fair.

O, but first…

she must be loving, kind, compassionate, tenderhearted…

of course.

One response to “love is a many freckled thing…”

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