Nature likes to hide itself. ~ Heraclitus
It’s snowing in some corner of the country today
even though Spring has danced across the calendar.
But who can tell Spring when she must unfurl her skirts
in all those frilly shades of pink, puce, and sky-blue?
Who can dictate the awakening of love in a lovelorn heart,
or direct migrating birds to another season all together?
Not you or I, for we only know that another day has arrived
where we sit in watchfulness for the first chirping robin,
or wait in anticipation of that first flutter in our breast
announcing a lover’s entrance across a crowded room.
Our eyes observe waves of greening grass newly sprouted
over the slurry remains of mud from winter’s last melt.
And when I read my poems to you, the words of devotion
entrance us both until we are drunk on passion’s syntax.
The specter of another bitter winter cannot mar our dreams
even though another snow, another night, another goodbye
resides in the heart of every fiery touch and blooming rose.
We will not think about…then…only now and the burning sun
of our desires, the leafing trees soon to shade languorous walks,
the effortless convergence of spring and youth’s belief that…now
April 17, 2018
I am guilty of wanting to capture time,
barnacle-attached and bat-blind by the idea.
Consider the inexplicable rapture of orgasm,
that sun-burst shattering of nerves
both infinite and finite, exposed
in the euphoric flash of passion.
After, as blood-thrummed veins simmer
to a relaxed flow again, and sweat-slicked
skin cools in surrender to love’s triumph,
I want to clutch the moment
in my sheet-gripping fists,
bask in the intense green-glow
Like a firefly’s beating heart that blinks
then stops, then blinks again sparking the night.
Another petite death buffeted by my next breath.
I want the shiny pennies of your eyes
sated and shielded by drooping lids, this gift
more perfect than the last bloom of youth.
Cocooned on this beachscape
You are the lyre I strum,
I am the drum you pound.
We breathe in our sexual musk
As heat flows through us.
The slow motion of our joining
Accelerates to a grasping frenzy.
Passion, refined to this elemental shattering
Of tangled limbs damp with sweat.
Complete under a mantle of stars, love
Comes upon us slowly, then too fast,
Until we are caught like celestial beings
Moving in symphonic synchronicity.
A hundred, thousand, million miles
Of separation cannot defeat the light
From one imploded star that stretches
Unimaginable distances to this pinpoint
In time, captured by the wonder of our eyes,
And the rhythm of our wildly beating hearts.
A Lover's Plea
At what point did we relinquish the joy found
in lacing fingers through each other's hand?
Do you remember the soft warmth of pure unity,
the powerful pull when skin touches skin?
One movement, innocent until it turns
heatedly decadent, debauching, no intent
other than to slake our lust. Expressions
equally acceptable, even desired, undeniable.
When did we understand that love
could rescue or ruin our soul?
Both possibilities are always true.
Two hearts racing in tandem can elevate
or diminish the other with a careless remark
or a smothering solemn silence.
By what tacit agreement was youth's fire
doused, replaced with complacency?
A touch can still ignite what was once
the tapestry of our desire. The same hope
still resides in the dark swell
beneath our breasts. Take my hand.
Awake with me.
Traverse this landscape of my flesh.
Help me bury all the misplaced words,
those hurtful, sullen grievances.
It isn't one road chosen over another,
rescue or ruin, bitter or sweet.
Both possibilities exist,
are still and always true.