zzolo

What is Right and What is Life

04 Oct 2003

The golden hands of autumn slip through cracked
windows, clenching awe-struck throats, blackened
from smothering smoke, while the stars fan flames
of motionless, monumental moments, boasting blame
for memories that define our luscious, lovable lives.

The half-moon has ruined seasonal wounds,
so we can embrace in the face of whispering winter,
and sun sets earlier every evaded, eventless
everyday we hold hollow hands and scentless
love reaches with each fallen leaf and writhes.

Like the golden autumn night holds your breathe,
you hold me. Like the grey winter holds and seethes
to the mountainside, painting a chattering place,
I cling to you, so frozen in your warm embrace.
Ready for spring, naked, sprawled, we make plans.

I have tasted your death, salty to these worried eyes,
and know now, notably unable to sever hurried ties.
Even as winter wakens my hibernation, your freedom
twists these cheeks to smile, tenderly afflicted , poised to run,
legs clenched, heart open, finding tonight we lay like hands.

  Next time we will not aim so high.
Poem to Hilary