Sometimes for no particular reason
an ecstasy rises in me,
an ecstasy palpable and pure,
the ecstasy that you are mine.
It rises so determined and overpowering
I do not know what to do with myself.
Images of you invade my consciousness,
a parade of ninjas invading from the shadows,
and before I realize it, before I can do anything
about diverting or stopping or controlling it,
it takes me over. I become helpless.
But I don’t mind. The only thing that matters
in all of life really, the only thing that makes
the stress and anguish and uncertainty bearable
is you. You – from the beautiful girl
holding my hand so tentative and sweet
way back in high school, to the beautiful,
complete woman you have blossomed into.
Your presence in my day, your form and movement,
your smile and hair and hands and face,
the cadence of your voice, calling me,
always calling out to me, like Sirens calling Ulysses.
Over the years Michael Estabrook has published 15 chapbooks and appeared in some terrific poetry magazines, but he says: “you are only as good as your next poem and like a surfer searching for that perfect wave, I am a poet prowling for that perfect poem.” Right now he is looking for that perfect poem in his wife, who just happens to be the most beautiful woman (and person) he has ever known.