I’m caught between
ecstasy
at your being here
and the grief of it,
for the world
isn’t good enough
for you
Faith, Health, and Other Musings
May our minds flourish with creation, and may our hands never deny its expression.
I’m caught between
ecstasy
at your being here
and the grief of it,
for the world
isn’t good enough
for you
Not a person
But a planet full
Vast in its purple oceans
And many in its moons
Dragging me into your orbit
And drowning me in your
Violet waves
You are a snow day,
a game-saving buzzer shot,
the first sip of coffee,
and the last page
of my favorite book,
when good defeats evil
and love wins.
She pulls me
gently
down a well-worn path,
littered with ferns and old letters,
and brings me to
a flowery clearing.
“This is always where they leave,”
she says,
indicating the barren field.
“Yes,” I say,
“this is it.”
“This is what?”
“This is a perfect place
to build a home.”
Breathing heavy,
I wait for light to leave the sky –
longing for your nighttime spell
a brutal, tortured tongue-tie.
You haunt me with your drawling voice
dark and yet unseen,
you disturb my foolish, failing heart
and call it Halloween.
Poetry is for the living,
but death
is what grants it meaning,
making time so fleeting
and love so precious
that even poetry
can scarcely
touch it.
But how
do you
give an
appetite
even
to my eyes?
-L.M.G.
“I would do
everything for you”
sounds romantic
until someone
asks you
to do it.