litters the wet road outside the corner café
where a French waitress with short spiky hair,
Gucci glasses and an accent to die for
smiles as we enter - remembering our first visit
perhaps - but possibly because she sees love
joining us at the small, square table beneath
a great window through which the sun’s struggle
against the early morning clouds and drizzle
barely disturbs our deconstruction of the menu.
And if it seems that we may be wholly oblivious
to all that the world and this day have to offer -
forgive us – for we have wasted too much time
and risked the loss of everything we hope for
which makes this breakfast, here in
not simply a question of which tea to take
and not just about a momentary pause to praise
the cappuccino; nor can it be wholly explained
by the way you lick my honey from your finger tips
or lift a button mushroom to your lips and smile.
But it’s in such small, connected acts of love
that we may once again discover what it was
and is and will forever be - the force that makes
you quiver when we kiss and me grow calm
so that the noise desists inside my puzzled head
just long enough to have no fear and feel no pain
and long enough to learn to trust the sense within
the moment that our pulses race towards the infinite,
where we may find - not just the pleasure of it all
but reach the heart of what it is that we complete.
No comments:
Post a Comment