With a quill in hand,

I could tell thee how much they are loved,

and it would be believed, it would be honoured

for the feather would catch the late April

sunshine struggling through

the grime ridden window and would pause

your concerns for the day;

the ink staining the desk would congeal

and hard work would be seen to have been employed

in the making of verbal declarations of love

to your fair and beautiful eyes.

 

With a typewriter, an old fashioned

set of clunky keys resounding