I Will Not Temper Your Tender Hand Yet

I will not temper your tender hand yet,
Though it fills me with singsong wonder:
Not until the dwindling sun has set.

What was once innocent I’ll never forget,
Since we’ve slipped past our first blunder–
I will not temper your tender hand yet.

I once thought it good to pay my heart’s debt,
But now covet your long-ignored number:
Not until the dwindling sun has set.

Occasionally I paint a dream where we had never met.
And though silence is cut short by white thunder,
I will not temper your tender hand yet.

I dream yet still of your face glowing wet,
But restlessly stir without dark slumber.
Not until the dwindling sun has set.

If these fingers still whisper with soft regret,
Then I’ll wait ‘till my senses are long under.
I will not temper your tender hand yet.
Not until the dwindling sun has set.