Hopeless Romantics



Here,

where the roll from my pillow reveals the rising sun beside me.

 
There,

where our hands and arms toil to make glow the chores of everyday.

That place,

where the heart refuses to abandon the mind,
full moons will rise again, and cloud covered nights

will always be excused.

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 the noise of doubt.

Where, the hopeless romantic?

Everywhere.

For nothing need remain as it seems
as long as hope and trust flow between heart and mind.

Lest we forget…

Shards of broken dreams know how to pierce,
and attachment to past disappointments
will always cry out for attention.

Yet allowing…

 
The smell of gardenias on hot, humid nights,
the sound of pine-cones falling upon soft needles,
the sight of ocean-tides washing clean the beaches,
the taste of salty tears when all seems dark,

and the touch of passion's grace,
patience will set-free the hopeless romantic
to anticipate all the sunrises waiting
to color and light further tomorrows,

Time’s effervescent Now of love.