To Be Love

Each morning,
through windows high up,
Manhattan’s light beckons heavy eyelids of sleep,
opening one, then two eyes to embrace another day,
even as foreshadowing reminds one, as always
of inevitable late-night insomnia.

Still…

The daylight hours beckon,
where the residue of faded yesterdays
surrounds today like a Greek chorus of tragedian echoes
careening off walls of cavernous avenues.

On the street…

Desire’s flirtatious bounce,
now languid with age,
remains alert for notice,
defies rejection,
lifts its weathered optimism skyward,
inhaling hope’s aura once again.

At times…

Longing winds its way gracefully through
emotion’s Central Park,
forever freshening seasonal colors
basking overhead,
sheltering these first-kiss spawning grounds,
where bench upon bench,
remains infatuation’s favorite meeting place,
rousing memories once again,
turning over the tattered folds of intimacy’s once smooth velvet,
now but threadbare cover for loneliness.

Still…

On a good summer day’s end,
beneficence spreads its long shadows
offering its nightly solace to the innocent,
its bravery of romance to keep alive
its ghost-like allure.

In the near distance,
rhythmic subway rumbles and cab horns
layered by a neighbor’s domestic rife,
harmonize with nature’s thunder-cloud drums
pounding the sky into the gray of sympathy.

As firmament’s kettledrum rolls closer,
the many small windowed enclosures containing leftover youth
continue the faith that tomorrow can be another beginning,
that the winds of love never fully dry the tears of disappointment,
for such weeping is always needed
to nurture the seedlings of hope,
and the patience to endure tomorrow’s privilege
of pursuing life’s most precious gift,

Nature’s breath of another day,
another sunset,
another chance to be love.