Looking back in a haze of nostalgia,
I suspect that love
is an extraordinary happening
clothed in the every day,
a wily thing that springs its tricks
and slaps its knee
in delight at coupled pratfalls.
I'd love to greet it,
the moment it turns the corner,
sticks out its foot
and trips me up,
making me exclaim with surprise
over the skinning of my knee,
the one that's puffed and swollen,
and the capture of my heart,
the heart so deeply buried that
I didn't know it could be found.
I'd love to serenade love
with a song
whose lyrics hum a pure note of truth
as Rumi did when he gathered
opposites in his hands and noted
he became fierce like a lion
and tender like the evening star
when love dribbled warm and moist
in the tender little cracks of his soul.
I know he was talking about God,
but love in its varied forms
is my god.
I'd sure as hell prefer to quote Rumi and say,
"I was dead, then alive.
Weeping, then laughing,"
rather than recall that once
I was alive and laughing,
in the blink of an eye,
the beat of a heart,
the assassin struck and I wept
as love lay bleeding.
Run -- quickly -- and find a love doctor
with a penchant for passion.
Bring her hither and command
that she, like the most gentle mother,
bind up love's oozing wounds
and bring it back to tender life.
I am yours and you are mine,
oh you who thinks my every thought
and brings bouquets of prayer
of wings of breath.
La dolce vita.
So unexpected on this close side of death.