The Cat is on the couch. The Guy is on the couch. The Girl is on a chair next to the couch. A fire crackles in the woodstove. Our stomachs are filled with roast and apples and new potatoes. It is a perfect autumn evening.
The problem with contentment is that it kills the creative urge. After all, if I am content,by definition, my urges are asleep in their cubbies.
Why is it that we write the most poignant love poetry when we have been cruelly rejected? Why is it that when you sit next to your lover, for once secure in something substantial and loving and quietly (and sometimes not so quietly) passionate, the last thing you want to do is write a love poem?
Will you settle for an old poem, one conceived and born in torment now long past, and faded like a pale late-autumn leaf?
In The Graveyard
Meeting
on the cemetary path, you
clasp my hands
under
waterfalling
words
kiss me senseless
with autumn's jasmine breath
cradle me to you
on the dew-soft marble bench.
Say you drown inside me
I am dragged
down by the catch in your voice
to unfathomable places
your mind is a hall of mirrors - your mouth
fresh-cut clover and rain
Moonstruck,
envious stars
fling themselves away
silvering the cypress
silent angels
and the stones
my careful trembled fingers
on your perfect face
framed in alabaster light
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