Honey spirals warm in teacup;
"Yes," her smiling shy eyes whisper;
Featherbed's pale blue sheets;
Hair sweet as autumn apples;
Breast-touch silken-soft,
Nipples rise in throbbing light;
A red-orange harvest moon.
Slow rain, wet-black earth;
Yellow maple, oak leaves glowing gold;
Raindrops click-tick poncho ears;
Evening moist-air cool on cheeks;
Woodsmoke curling snowdust pines.
Wander-wondering
The youngman years,
Lost behind my questing sight:
Who knows these things?
Can I know the knower, too?
Or
Am I but a vain and harried void,
Sentient, noisy, transient, meaningless?
Paying attention,
Gathering substance,
Calling it Self —
I drank the wine,
Smoked the grass,
Kissed the girls,
Played guitar,
Read the books,
Scribbled words,
Collected friends,
Signed the deals,
Made a name,
Escaped the fear —
For all of that,
The more I knew,
The less.
And so I gnashed
And wept,
And sighed,
And finally shrugged,
And shed those leaves —
Music,
Words,
Pictures,
Friends,
Faces,
Places,
Triumphs,
Sorrows,
Medals,
Names,
All the rest —
The-might-have-beens,
Worst and best;
The could-have-beens,
Hopes and dreams;
The should-have-beens,
Regrets.
Except for true love
(Not a thing possessed,
A state of being, lived)
I stripped the past away,
And stand here
Naked as a baby in the cradle.
I turned but once to ask,
"What was all that about?"
Now I see,
Without a nanosecond's mindgap:
A cup of tea, spiraling honey,
Smiling shy eyes whispering "Yes,"
Autumn evening's quiet black-earth rain,
Yellow maple, golden oak leaves,
Woodsmoke, snowdust,
Featherbeds
And
Breast-touch love,
Apple-sweet and gentle,
Bathed awash
In the throbbing glow
Of a red-orange harvest moon.
