vendredi, décembre 30, 2011

My dream for you

Sometimes one does not know a hunger until one can name it.

As we have.

Dancing, leaping, anticipating, words spiraling across the screen, icons pale substitutes for the gasp of laughter, the grin of surrender, the mock outrage that forgives in being articulated.

And oh, in passing, the mutual, caged, restrained, diverted desire.

Milton, Chaucer, Greene, Russell...there is nowhere, so far, that you haven't traveled, and sought, and found something of value. Even if I think I get there first, you have already found that place of delight.

Or at least, if you haven't been there, you disguise it well, my fellow fencer.

Though we have so much, the gift is tinctured, as perhaps all the really good ones are, with the reality of distance, and struggle, and of priorities.

What we seek is different, as is what we have found. Except for this tilt, pole to pole, unsought by either.

So as you stumble towards your destiny, and I trip towards mine, we make the words dance and glint and shimmer between us -- as you open to me a part of my soul I didn't even realize I had.

I name it now, and will put it aside again, in the service of reality.

For after all, my child, I am a woman of rubrics, principles and facts.

A set of facts to which I must lash myself (and perhaps lash myself with), like a sailor clinging to a mast, lest I get swept away by the "what might have beens" of dreams.

And for all that, in spite of all that I know, this castle in the sky is for you.


At a table you sit, running your hand abstractedly through your hair, the light glancing off your face, giving birth.

The word eludes you, the word that will say all you want, and no more.

Turning to me, you ask for a synonym, an allusion, an image to nestle softly in between the mortar of your creation.

Without thinking, I provide it -- or you steal it, unscrupulous wretch.

Coming up behind you, hands on your shoulders, I lean against you, feeling your strong frame against mine.

Returning to work, only the crackle of the fire punctuating the silent, grey afternoon, we trust the knowledge that kindred spirits share so effortlessly.

No acolytes here. No leader to follow. The marriage of these minds brooks no impediment.

Later, we will take a walk, hand-in-hand, through the open fields, sometimes in amiable debate, sometimes in silence.

We watch for, seek out, wait for inspiration to arrive.

It will find us -- I, who deal in facts and argument -- you, who take words and weave them into poetic tapestries.

Through a mist of gentle kisses, mirrored in eyes that window the advancing and retreating knowledge we have of one another, we leave the introspection be for another evening.

Work is done for the day.

There are new lands to discover tonight - it is a journey I never signed up for, because no one had ever told me it was possible.

Aucun commentaire: