From ancient times, love, framed as dire disease,
the casuists observed, symptoms to tell
new lovers, prove they truly rang its bell,
and all that of the deep onset to please.
But old persistent love when lover's fled -
dementia, a temporo-sphere at odds,
indelible patterns of absent gods -
though hard head rage and rail, will not lie dead.
Set fork and spoon at the lengthening table
of the heart, for what can't be exorcised
excised, must be humanely understood.
We'll love again as we are best able
to grow tender, nor deny what is prized.
Though waves run through us, yet the swimming's good.
YOU ARE READING
Greenclad.
PoesiaIvy-jacketed, December oaks on road-borders shock their stark gestures at us now, through sun and sleet, that January will yawn at and February, propping eyelids, will desperately ignore, longing for blossom; and making do with the least of anything...
