I’ll be honest with you.
I still believe
in love and all that folderol,
in romance and
and in long lives holding hands…
Despite that I have had no luck
in keeping what I’ve found,
and I’ve had lots of love, my dears;
they just aren’t still around.
The flavors still reside
at the edge of my tongue
from every kiss and sweet word,
every salty neck,
each long conversation
vertical and horizontal.
Some were simply transient by nature,
and there’s beauty in that ephemera;
whether we knew it at the time
we were making sand castles
and blowing soap bubbles
and chalking the sidewalk
with the nature of our love.
Some didn’t fit properly
when we tried to move together,
mismatched parts or broken gear wheels,
lack of lubrication…
and we left each other
on the rubbish heaps of our memories
for someone else to find.
Then… then there were those
who were the Solomons of my vineyard,
our time like lyrics manifested
seasons of sensation and delight,
both daily grind and magical moment,
two wolves, two crows, two swans…
I saw them cross the veil;
wine spilled in well-ploughed furrows,
where do you go, from there?
I will admit, I still dream color,
warm embraces, darkened eyes,
the scent of morning on the sheets
tumbled in the night before.
Somehow, I’m not as brave, now, though,
a bit more timorous in action
than that young girl or woman was
who sought her satisfaction,
and hadn’t a thought for here and now
or what tomorrow might or might not be,
only the cup of another’s mouth
and the drunkenness of love.
It is as if by having the best
I am somehow quite ruined for
what passes for it on the fly,
and fearing I may not find it again,
I pass the quaff
preferring to be dry.
© RCGA 2018