Oct 182014
 
A snowy day brings us rarely close, in domestic
confine caught, the sizzle-slip of small hail
sliding from the eves in beaded curtains
until beamed rainbows ring us round
and the canceled day is filled with more than light.
When hot coffee whistles in its pipping pot
the day displayed seems open to us
and closed to the humming hustle of all
the outer world at once.  

                            We two
consider our chance to read, catch up,
make patterns of extended feet entwined
with layabout mirth on ruffled covers
confused as ski trails.  We look outside
and see, beyond the pane fogging at our faces,
how hurrying snow comes, obscuring all       
but us, our inner vision's variableness--
the vast differentials of our too-human light
that kindles immanent behind kind eyes
that view their refuge of two complete,
and with how steady, how stroking gaze
swim eons in an hour, two who know
eternity in a kiss where wedded lips
consign and keep all aspects of their love.
Wrapped in whiteness as within a cloud,
rosy nose to nose and breath to breath we breathe,
the wildered world beyond our known globe
of filial affection left unseen, as if within
the whitewashed castle walls of a lightbulb
we two commenced in love, and in love continue--
blind to ugly outer circumstance, blares and scares, 
seeing only, touching only, our mutual hearts'
intimate disturbances, whose orbit is our sum.

Love doesn't come rowdy and crowding
into our lives, but steals with silver stealth
into living eyes and lips, and with softest brush
writes its miracle in silent subtleties,
limning argent inches of moonlight on the soft
receptive pages of each heart's bound book.
Love leaves its milky trailings like a sigh traced
in innocence upon a cheek by a child's finger
warbling blameless upon her parent's chest.
Love is not made alone by Nature's doing,
though it moves among Nature's byways and shades,
lingers along Nature's lemon lanes at sunset,
or, more gorgeously, more fully and less fitfully,
strolls boldly below each midnight moon
whose cheshire sliver catches in a maple branch.

Quick as mischief, you slip the sash up,
smiling wild as the shivering air invades,
and laughing grab me back, and, simple,
look upon the winter swirl outside.  And so
we hold hands at the now open window,
letting large new snow touch and dissolve
on our upturned faces, feeling our heat
and the cool emptiness of other lives beyond 
our small life together.  Here we clasp,
here we feel each peck and speckle
on our hands and hearts, two renegades
who await each day with sly patience, 
nor rush to tomorrow when snow today stops the clock, 
and time is made all quiet as an owl asleep.


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