There is a softness in love--in the tint
of it and in the breeze; the heart takes
in this softness and distributes it evenly
throughout the season. In the heart
sincerity can be quiet, a sequence of heart
beats, moments, or lovers stilled by the flush
of the moon. On the perimeter the heart
weighs much more than anyone could have
imagined. But, inside, its warmth and fragility
thunder lightly--just enough to be heard.
And when the chest aches in expectation,
it becomes truth and no amount of comfort
can direct its wants into white silhouettes
just hovering on the sidelines of a perfect
fall. (One must be in the consommé of
things in order to merge well.)
There is a sweetness to vigor,
just as there is a fear of what may become.
Like the surge of the sea when it moves
in and out from shore, its body wet and cool,
wave by wave. It is enough.
And it is sufficient that the hand fits exactly
into the hand of another –-the warmth alone
could leave one ignited between breaths.

9/23/2006 12:16:39 PM