sometimes, a soft brush of longing

Dear friend of my heart,

as seasons pass me by I come to understand how poems which are so deeply of the moment return meaningfully. They are perhaps even more affectionate as the symphony of seasons progresses and repeats, wafting memories of many joys and sorrows in gentle streams of scents and colors. This poem is from September 2017. The autumnal smell of September and October fills me up with a deep sense of connection with the mystery, an exhilaration, a desire, and a bearable bout of madness.

Longing for the Cold Outside

sometimes, a soft brush of longing
right under my collarbone
spreads like water, warm water
on my chest and spreads some more
breath, warm breath in a night
under the moon, it’s cold outside
out there, where she makes music
day after day, after that night
I slept carefree, careless, caressed
by her song flooding my dreams
flimsy, the pretense of innocence
innocent too, the play of innocence
out there, where she makes love
day after day, after that night, to me
I sleep carefree, careless, caressed
by her voice flooding my dreams
sometimes, a soft brush of longing
on my skin, flitters away
into the dark forest of fantasy

I was going through old pictures today. This past year I have been a docile home body, in touch with the universal right here. The lockdown was not difficult for me. I missed going to the café to write, but it wasn’t much of an inconvenience considering how bad things have been for so many of us. Now I feel a longing for the cold outside, a longing for a footloose adventure. I wish to smell the earth somewhere else, bathe in a river clear and cold, be humbled by the majesty of the mountains, embrace an old tree, meet someone who yearns to exchange a story… drink a wine made of love… and just walk…