A word well-placed,
Your gaze with flame,
Sweetness outpoured,
My lap is your resting place.
A finger tipped to my leg,
Your pinky hooked with mine,
Our bodies one.
A palm as we pass,
Slight or passionate, 
Even the public display is a private language we speak. 
Friendship renewed,
Through text or incarnate, 
Touch is love and love is touch.
Your dinner date legs pressed against my knee,
Your head nestled on my chest,
Arms wrapped and embracing something beyond love.
Lips in their own dance,
Laughter-soaked air,
Humble prayer at meal or close of day. 
Each one a touch, 
Each touch a paint stroke,
This love's landscape unmatched, 
Brought to life,
Given colorful life,
Touch by touch. 

There is joy in the strain
When the seed bursts forth
Seeking light from the darkened sod
And preparing its stalk for fruited weight.

There is peace in the pain
When the Samaritan lifted
With his goodly hands
And gave from his own pockets
To house and feed the roadside lame.

There is delight, some even say fun,
In the hard-walked Path of climbing a hill,
Whether rain or shine, If we trod pavement or dirt.

The seed had the fruit within it.
The Samaritan had God's love inside.
The heart told the blistered feet
The destination was worth the ache.

And every strain I feel
On this beautiful path
With you is joy
Because it is you
I get to have by my side.

​I'll be the seed, if you are the fruit.
I'll lift the lame if your love is the inn.
I'll journey the rugged terrain
If you are the end.
There is joy in the strain,
Only when that joy is you.

by Brian G. Daigle
​
I watch appear in garden rows 
The fresh growth of our love. 
Your eyes are light. 
Your laugh is air. 
Your love, water from above. 

And when I think the vines are surely overgrown with life, 
You give a word, 
A touch, 
A jest,
The presence of a wife. 

by Brian G. Daigle

The form of love in feminine frame
Beheld and given a glorious name. 
My love she beckons, her love she gives, 
My love she ignites, invigorates, and tames. 

The sight of you in silhoutte lines,
A grace to eyes and heart and man's mind. 
My gaze she holds,
My heart she molds,
Our love she informs, enfolds, and entwines.

by Brian G. Daigle

What are bright? Sunrises and smiles.
What are busy? Bees and ant piles.
What are happy? Children and flowers.
What are gifts? Friends and hours.

by Brian G. Daigle

There sits a light upon a hill which shines from east to west.
It wasn't there more recently, but now it gives its best.
It shines upon the old and new, it pours forth heat and light.
It brings what's hidden to my eyes; it gives a hopeful sight.

A companion for a traveling soul, and feet that wish for home,
A beacon from some peaceful town, with the likeness of my Rome,
This light inflamed by greater Light, was made apart from me,
And if I covered heart or face, a fool I'd prove to be.

I cannot help, though lights I've known, to see the value here,
To pause my tracks and gaze up toward, until my feet draw near.
But burdens rest on traveled backs, and fires made ash before.
And yet the pureness of Lucy's heart does heal and does restore.

​I will love this light so long as it's here and brightens all I see.
I will wait upon that greater Light to know if this light is for me.
And yet whatever comes beyond, if this light passes sure,
I'll wish each light in front of me to have a love so pure.

by Brian G. Daigle

Angelic grace with Eve's own form,
A message come down to earth,
A word of hope to end a storm,
Transcending for love's new birth.

The fullness of friendship never so clear
And never have graces so spread 
Than in her eyes and from her lips
And flowing like gold from her head. 

The purest of joys I find within 
And a treasury far beyond this.
Home in a face, a touch, a grin,
And light from the gift of a kiss. 

Her nearness a honey, a rose, a river. 
Her presence a sweetness, a beauty, a guide. 
If ever Love's hand did mercy deliver
It's surely each time she's here by my side. 

Mercy delivered and always on time,
Never to tarry or dampen its voice.
If ever Love's hand did with flesh make a rhyme,
It's verses are you. Your virtues, Love's choice.

Let Solomon or Coesus bring forth greater goods 
Than what mercy has here delivered. 
No storehouse contains nor palace could hold
Your beauty, a liberation and tether. 

by Brian G. Daigle

Present appearing in beauty's form 
Blanketed over life's close storms. 

Present but no shadow or shade,
With sun above to guide what's been made.

A closeness wished, and vulnerable songs, 
Though previous clouds have drenched with deep wrongs. 

Present indeed, and courage for here,
The courage for now, for love to appear. 

More stories to tell, more stories to make,
With paths now merged, more pathways to take. 

But a present will be when her presence is near, 
And with every new present, new joys to see clear. 

by Brian G. Daigle 
​
I saw her there on canvas stretched 
With strokes and pigments ever etched. 

I beheld her once on mountain peak,
Those Sawtooths reaching heaven's seat. 

I felt her dimly by the light 
That love burns when two loves unite. 

I stood within her cathedral walls
Where bread rebuilds and rebels fall.

I feared her still with raging waves
Which crashed upon far Roach's cove.

I viewed her in that father's care
When War did bind and fear ensnared. 

I kissed her, never calm nor tame,
Her power tempered not by name.  

I held her in my child's delight 
When fatherly affection did ignite.

I cried for her when broken hearts 
Still loved and shared what love imparts. 

I heard her hum from cello's deep,
From violin strings my soul did leap. 

I read her once in Homer's verse,
And by Chesterton's pen my faith she nursed. 

I counted her deep in Augustine's stream, 
When mercy crept like ivy green. 

I watched her born, I knew it true
Where daughter vacated mother's womb.

I smelled and tasted her at dusk
When mother's table I learned to trust.  

I heard her in each story told,
By Payne Street's flames, both young and old. 

I saw her too when rampart men,
First laid their eyes upon Helen. 

But never was she more terribly seen 
Than when divine blood death did ripen. 

 by Brian G. Daigle

Love is an island where all surrounding 
Mercy crashes on our shores. 

Breezes of laughter, sunrays of passion,
Contained and protected for our self-contained vitality. 

If anyone enters by sea or by air
On non-native ground they stumble. 

Immediately foreign to them is our language,
Unknown to them is our friendship's topography.  

The cities built from years of labor,
The native plants grown from soil more native,

These rocks of love formed by volcanic depth,
Ancient yet new, once fluid now stable. 

Upon this island where love knows no bounds,
These innumerable grains lapped by grace's unending wash. 

Foreigners, all, who come from without; 
exiles, we, who from within flee.