Love’s Mystery


Here, where the roll from my pillow reveals the rising sun beside me.
There, where our hands and arms toil to make glow the dank chores of everyday
so that full moons will always rise
and ominous clouds will always be ignored.

Even as hope and despair crowd the horizon for dominance,
so too will the strains of a saxophone
fill the drifting air and push away all doubt.

Where, the hopeless romantic?

Everywhere.

For as the lovelorn know so well,
nothing is as it seems,
but as one wishes it.
The enemy of wars and poverty will always be,
but the heart and mind can make soft the reality of the day,
beckoning to love.

For just as shards of broken dreams will pierce if allowed,
and attachment to past disappointments
will always cry out for attention,
allowing the smell of gardenias,
the sound of pinecones falling upon soft needles,
the sight of ocean's foam cascading upon us
while tasting the salt of forever's forever—such
will be challenged.

Still…

The touch of passion's grace
will always be available to the hopeless romantic
for yet further tomorrows,
where those of trust will discover
here is where resides the effervescence of love’s mystery.