Silent Friends
She wore boots with an attitude
and drove a silver pickup like the Lone Ranger.
Sometimes I’d meet her at the corner
for two, three days, then I’d miss her.
Either I was late or she early
or maybe she was sick, on vacation.
But then I’d see her again.
I want to know her name, where she lives.
Is she married? Single? Does she like to laugh?
I know where she works. I could meet her.
I could talk to her. I could find out.
What if she doesn’t like me?
What if she doesn’t wonder about me like I do her?
What if we’re only waving friends?
I want to leave notes on her pickup
or call her office.
Would I know her voice?
Woman Man
I am not
a man
nor
do I want
to be
one.
I am a woman
aware
of joys and sorrows
as if
mine.
I love a woman as she
loves me more
than a man
as a woman
could only know.
With hands
as well as mind
a melding of souls.
Condemn me
not
for I am
not
a man.
.
A Woman Met
How differently we fit like fork and spoon
yet bent the same.
So long since being touched —
goose bumps on my naked body
lying on the bed, waiting for her.
Hands shiver a whisper and sizzle coals.
No betrayal of love past, gone, dead.
My heart expands but never forgets.
I can’t die while still alive,
and I live.
I live with this other
today! tonight!
tomorrow? forever?
Diane Webster’s goal is to capture a moment of nature with words so others can see what she has seen. Her work has appeared in “Muddy River Poetry Review,” “The Rusty Nail,” “River Poets Journal” and other literary magazines.
