Before love, that jolting lilt
East of roses, in perturbed darkness,
Missing the eternal circumstance,
Yearning still, again, for that exploratory tilt …
Vainly would I fly into your heart
Afire, burning, consumed, expended.
Love is not an ending; nor does it end
Easily: becomes pith, becomes seed, starts
Needing, kneading, mid-desperation,
The long climb out of loneliness, turning
In hope, in anguish, in foolish expectation.
No two are joined except in painful learning:
Each frightened lesion closed for restoration.
Copyright by Nicholas Gordon