Lake Champlain

Lake Champlain, an old bridge,

he placed his hand in hers,

"I would like to kiss you?"

A question rather than a statement made.

Before an answer, the brush of lips,

passionately soft,

the touch of fingers, entwined, trailing,

like the strumming of a guitar being played.

She stands there, once again, overlooking,

in the same spot where it all began,

where her heart devised a plan,

to make him aware,

of the devotion, the emotion,

in the brush of lips,

the touch of fingers, entwined, trailing,

in answer to the question once posed,

"I would like to kiss you?"

Only if forever, it is shown, known that you care.

Overlooking the canal,

Lake Champlain, an old bridge,

standing upon the structure, built new, strong,

he placed his hand in hers,

"I would like to kiss you?"

Another bridge made,

the brush of lips, the touch of fingers,

entwined, trailing,

like the strumming of a guitar,

the love,

plays on.