Drunk on Your Letters
by Ted Guhl

Winter's days, in which I live short hours of leisure
And its nights, whose darkest minutes seem so long,
Are the calendar in which my life is measured;
And spent in quiet solitude or in solitary song.
For ticking time leads e'er to next moment,
To fated death and final gasping breath;
Anticipation o'erthrown by days long spent,
Youth dwindl'd and the sun of warmth bereft.
Thus, I thirst for some sweet note of cheer,
A slightly intimate sip of spring's sweet chatter,
With hints of inebriating spirits written clear
That even in cold wind one hears soft laughter:
Such potion, dearest barmaid, hast thou served
I grow intoxicated from drinking in each word.