Tuesday, April 13, 2010

An Ode to You

The landscape of my soul.
The geography of my heart.

My heart has a natural spring to its step.
A Natural Spring, its aquifer deep,
it trickles to the surface, sometimes its a spring, a coil, a spiral of tension,
held back, usually un-activated, dormant with stored energy,
it does not self rotate, it imitates independent will, although that could be misleading
It does not have its own torque
What are the triggers, I'm sure to discover there are key words and emotional spatter
part of my brain feeds on the energy of speculation
speculation leaves me impulsive
so concentration begins to erode
chemicals are now racing through my nervous system for hours
influencing my focus, meshed, vulnerable
I want to make plans, take planes, plot, preen
bask in plausible pleasure,
and play
The delight in speculating our souls mission
the promise, the hint of your expression on my body
Today is a new day
the rain cold and unrelenting
feeding the spring, earth releasing a sleepy haze
my brain has pirroetted
A critical mass, an energy signature
each step releases the combination
until I begin to think in terms of
"You and I', we, us, till the next time
till you call, till we see each other
I run it through my head,
it feels like I could go there, to the love Den, if I wanted a lover.
I do not want a lover or anything resembling reruns of Karma unresolved.

A heart that matters to me,
someone resolved to love me straight to my soul, swept off my feet
the ground and earth call,
the planting and seedlings of spring
the season of rebirth,
bathed in this appreciation of the possible delight of an impossible union
I feel the warmth of the sun getting stronger, lasting longer,
like the heavens trying harder, my tenderness like soft new foillage,
my vulnerability like ferns turning into fiddle heads,
my willingness like Dandilions, willing the yellow to turn into feather like ideas, that disperse

You do not want me the way I don't want others
who come hopeful at my door and I reject politely
You do not desire me the way I feel repelled by the attention of the right sort who could love me and bore me to death
let it go, let it go
let it go
It's spring.

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