Our song was not of crickets nor of strings
it was more in depth of water, timpanies
of summer thunderstorms, herons, crows.
We neither burned nor froze, yet with fevered
fingers plucked its breeze from embered words.
Yet, love, though just a word, a single syllable,
is strong, commitment of concrete, a marble pillar,
feathered like your pillowed moan at dawn.
It grows when split in two, Gains strength
from dusk, from rain and as the pearl
that’s built from itch its sheen is moonlit
streets on ponds. You take my hand and
we pretend we still can hear the song
now turned to minor habits built with trust.
Today Walt is hosting poetics for us at dVerse with the topic being music a love. A great topic but also hard, love lend itself to sappy flower language and I tried to write something more real in the form of a free verse sonnet. Still there are a few word choices that are a bit cliche… but as I said, love poetry is so hard to write.
August 16, 2016