If I call you “Juliet,”

          will you come to a 

                           balcony made in part

of stalk and rooted

in the ground. As it

grows, flowers sprout

with yellow in the center

and white petals surround 

1. An outer layer of 

violet blue corolla wrap

around the inner white

like the skirts you always love

       to wear with thicker material

                            underneath and the sparkle

                                             overlay falls over it.

If from this earth,

     such a stalk grows and at

             its top, a balcony blossoms

                             for your angel feet to press upon,

a terrace built by 

Heaven’s architects

with golden, black and purple Calla 

Lilies at the top 

over pink braided roses, and

sprigs from evergreen 

trees.  Red berries jut out from 

crevices between the corollas and greens.

The mountain laurels support their

weight and they never fade. 

Where your feet 

            composed of angels’ dust

                    touch, are the softest grasses of

                                                    forests’ floors.

If only I could

       compose such a balcony as this,

                    what will I say, what words comprise

                                     from my lips besides “Juliet”

Oh, were I an artist, 

how would I paint your face: 

with those fat baby cheeks with winter’s berries, 

or shade the angles as you grew into a girl

picking Wisteria from the bush?

I am no sixteen-year-old with 

passenger car side pickup lines.

But when you 

   came from me, I fell for you

              immediately with your scream, 

              midnight hair, and baby cheeks.         

If I tell you of my love

    in words dressed up for a New Years’

                         gala lit up in champagne candles

                                sparked with an apricot glow

I will tell you stories of 

revolutionaries who

become queens and kings of those lifetime

wants of which people dream. There are  

a thousand Romeos to speak of 

your beauty. Beauty of the mind shows

your greater glow when you ask me why

I do a task one way, and you think 

practically in steps one, two, three,

and complete twenty-five piece 

puzzles I always push aside.

If I call you “Juliet,”

     will you come to me, even if

                  it’s only in my dreams?