He parked his car with the usual ease.
A cloud bedimmed my glowing face.
I cherished every second we simultaneously breathed
in our very sparse meetings,
but the globe of orange chocolate
that in my hand was soon seated
patched up the space his seven-minute eclipse created.
Suffused with the ingredients of my favorite juice,
the molten chocolate in my mouth enthused
my multiple muses.
Then his car shot through the historic hemisphere,
I was inhaling the medieval air,
Our visit to Rosslyn in years predated
The Da Vinci Code's affair.
Ours was a personal flare,
no Holy Grail.
He took my arm but I was perplexed
by the shopping bag his other hand gripped
as we leisurely sauntered
on the greenest lawn of Scotland.
Un-emblazoned knights, ungainly, approached
as he handed me the scepter of wheat
for swans to eat.
It was at Rosslyn that I found my own grail,
a lineage of monogamous friends,
plus a shield: the noblest of deeds.