Do you still own your sense of wonder,
the one that, in the flinting splendor of chance,
erupts from you, from your uncharted soul,
into recognition free from reservation?
It’s that elusive resonance with life
you contain, the one that shivers with bliss
on your most precious days, and
straightens your spine against desperation.
You still have it darling, as it was given to you,
your inviting sense of fearless wonder,
offering, like a window lit against the dark,
hope to the man searching his storm for yours.
Share it with me in another beautiful moment,
let it rush across your skin to mine,
startling history’s one perpetual second
into a lucid expanse of our uncommon eternity.
Love is a fit of mist spun silver fine
rising to enrapture a sense of you,
these woven spreads that, neatly
laid across a form,
expose what they contain.
I find you, asleep,
besides me still, and then
half awake, stirring,
tenderly seeking your other body,
you reach for reunion
and move into me.
To be lulled into sleep
amidst the whirring
of your heart’s spinnerets,
to lay me under
the silk of your soul,
to entomb my sight
in the bright freedom
of a dream, you hold on
as you are held.
Awe of all our delicate complexity
known only by surrender
to ineffable meaning beyond knowing.
Realize the long forgotten world,
the vaguely familiar clouds,
crisp outside the window,
joy of life and soul
remain always to be discovered.
In our fullness of mystery,
the revelry of whole
shines to be recognized,
again the ever new vantage,
when with fresh courage
we open our eyes.
I know how our treasure relies
on the way we have with words,
those complex instruments of intention
manufacturing the substance we are.
I’m not sorry for the trouble,
for the pretext of surface and depth,
as the deceptive loom of signification,
still makes the fabrics we require.
I may not be saying anything new
about the subject, but the substance
of love is constructed and worn,
mended and reused, the sounds
and marks of others compose ours.
They burst into the divine flames
needed to recast shrapnel to needles,
heat the temples where we pray,
shine on the gold of your voice,
and fight for love’s home.
Gentlest touch of morning love
again to begin, we renew breath,
say, dear girl life gave us
material in time, to carve
down or layer out, grow
solid but never decide,
bring night’s nervous hope
for tomorrow’s attempt.
Joy of a path made in cycles,
the wheel’s graceful rhythm
for time life new sky of light
and unsure potential in dark ,
for your ground to cover
with me in realization
of this our age, look
on this endeavor of gathered
days, the art of together
as our greatest work.