To him the day’s a virgin sheet
Awaiting gentle rape of words,
The sighs, the lies, the kisses sweet,
The flight of birds.
A garden bench, a lovely lass,
A pot of tea, a tray of cakes,
The sun, the errant bees that pass,
Are all it takes.
This poet, touched by wistful wit
More than his own – a gift of grace
To one who has no sense of it –
Exact in place…
No god disturbs his simple soul
Or pains his heart; empirical
His mind, and yet his life’s a whole –
A miracle!
If you would read the blush of dawn,
the waxing light, the atmosphere
Suffused with love, the hush of morn –
Then linger here.
Each sonnet brings a kiss of peace,
Each ode a knowing innocence.
To him death’s touch is soft release
In somnolence;
But while he lives I’ll laugh with him,
I’ll marvel at his endless smiles;
The rhymer’s way, walked at a whim,
Has many miles!
Adding your comment:
I couldn't have said it better myself! 
