Tender And Astringent
You’re tender, I’m astringent,
few detours to the sweet.
Our love is not contingent
on synchrony of beat,
the marriage of two true minds
some say that Shakespeare praised––
perhaps De Vere, but who minds? ––
the thought is sweetly phrased,
for marriage is a mélange
that thrives when two are polar,
immune to every challenge
as canine is to molar.
So love me, being tender,
astringent though I am;
be victor, and surrender,
when battered by a ram.
10/21/05
poem by Gershon Hepner
Added by Poetry Lover
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