Catch whispers of wood fires,
And maybe you too will feel
The hollow pull in the center of your chest
That fills with chilled excitement every fall,
A deep yearning, some primal reaction
Woven through rationalizations,
Because we are a thinking people.
But, perhaps, there is a red string
Running from my ribs to yours,
And the motors just aren't strong enough
To reel us in to each other.
The rest of the year, when the hole is patched up,
We have not stopped searching,
We are convalescing.
Come November, we will again wander through
Nights lit up like blue days by moonlight,
And eventually, we will spool our lines together.
No comments:
Post a Comment