Love walks in the wild,
is perfume clinging on the
children’s cheeks, the kiss
forever burning in the wildwood
tear-streaked, not with sorrow
faces brightly turning towards
the sky, the ragged happiness,
the hungry clouds. This bliss
sings on crickets’ legs and wings
in the hot night of the cicada
with noses pressed against the screens
smelling of dust and of vanilla,
sings epic tales of living things
to the wide open eyes,
to the wild baby Christ, his dreams.
The deep woods and its many trails,
the distant lands, the sailboat’s sails,
the sassafras crumpled in the hand,
the childish hope before the end –
Love makes Shalt Nots become the Canst
in happy, breathless strides across the grass,
and it perfumes every sorrow, hence
the child will understand.
(a few fragments, for giggles:)
On the hill to the west the old men
who are wiser than the world live in
a crumbling fortress forbidden to women,
and the atmosphere for a mile around
stinks of nag champa and echoes of Heaven.
But my lovely hens hide out in my kitchen,
as I sit at the table not daring to listen
to their tales about other men.
I live for the moment they kiss me,
and call me their favorite misogynist.
The hills lie still, the giants are sleeping
who lay down for a rest so long ago,
The cornfields will yield to the graveyards
for every horse you counted on the road.
Love lasts until the hills awaken,
and shake the tiny people from their homes,
Our hearts are filled, we slumber naked
while night surrounds our little house with ghosts.
Come quickly to the darkened window,
Come quietly my darling, do not speak –
Our love dies too in every morning,
Come softly while the beast is still asleep.
(Well, that’s one way to warm up the fires of passion – scare ’em to death. “And his eyes will behold strange women.” Ha!)