Love poem for my friends far away, in iambic pentameter.

To all my friends from whom I’m seperate

In flesh, in never having heard your voice,

Or by great distances, or by birthdate.

Brought together gladly, though not by choice

Or purpose, or intention, on our part.

But that there Purpose is, is clearly true.

For you have furrowed soil in my heart

That long lay barren, though I never knew.

To think this very medium’s despised!

And I, embarrased, often hold my tongue

Or speak not loudly of you, dearest friends

For fear of sounding frivolous, or young.

Oh, many by their touch can me console,

But you with words alone have touched my soul.