And Now This.

[Guest guest]

I remember my first love,

she was warm like a sirocco wind.

We got so close,

we had to separate each other every morning

like tissue paper, skin from skin,

like gauze moonlight clinging to dew,

and now this memory loves me still,

but you’re not that.

 

One dog that owned me, became my heels.

He would click to my graveled soul

as the panting of this cities heartbeat.

He would play tricks with my shadow

like musk plays jingles in the heat of summer,

and run forward and look back to say:

Come away to my far horizon.

And now this I pat within my memoirs

but you’re not that.

 

A friend I have never met, steers my sails,

and hauls me bedraggled and half drowned

from this sea of garnished desires.

He lands me

like an otter clinging to a clam,

too weary to open the meal.

He breaks my shellfish heart open,

and scoops out oil for my pelt,

and essence for my soul,

and now this, I hug to my love,

but you’re not that.

 

Beloved one, who lifts the corner of my being

and peeks out onto the world so shyly.

You are that, and yes this,

and all those who come as your disguise.

I feel you rustle the curtains of this world

and look through every soul window,

and now this longing

but not just that.

 

The dreary dawn of winter dark,

the sparkling air of fresh spring-shine.

The laughter of little children

old men coughing, girls falling in love

with girls, and boys being boys.

The touch of snow on my eyelids,

the apple-blossom of this awakening love

and now this, this silent wonder.

Ah yes, you are that. You are that.

 

 

love

 

eric

 

 

 

 

 

 

Copright 2002 Eric Ashford.