She said I wouldn't find him here,
a love that lives far away
with a surname of a foreign tongue
and skin that remains an olive shade.
No, I won't find him here
among the pine and butterfly weed.
My love blooms in spots and stripes
like Solomon's plume, this home I'll still cede.
But I find myself caught in thought's snags
with visions the seer said she sees,
and weak in my flawed decryption
between frankness and what would appease.
Friends will say I've grown stubborn,
and I know this could be the terse truth.
But do my hopeful hunches
merely disguise a hopeless sleuth?
