Cherish moments such as,
when life gathers around toiling feet.
With splinters embedded beneath the nail.
While hay lay stacked…
bale upon bale.
Even as evening’s storms remain a plight.
Alas, no chivalry in what the season’s create.
No precision to articulated measure in the artisan’s fight or flight.
A labor to our demise…
to believe other,
would be unwise.
Still a righteous harvest is ours by design.
To gather one true passion
a fodder to the mind.
“There is a compromising position in love.
One in which there are conditions.
it is a little rough around the edges.
It is unwilling…
It is relentless.”
with the blink of an amorous brown eye,
she was gone.
Fluid and fluorescent, as her encouraging words…
My passionate repair?
Built on this and that.
Disparaging acts to which my vulnerability tracks.
my consciousness nudged with a quick start…
To grab, pull and tug,
at my heart.
The feeling of comfort has always come with a start.
Hitherto, my lover has forever spoken with candor.
“Far better to be a susceptible sacrifice of love.
Than a sheltered spectator.”
I feel certain that I am going mad again. I feel we can’t go through another of those terrible times. And I shan’t recover this time. I begin to hear voices, and can’t concentrate. So, I am doing what seems the best thing to do. You have given me the greatest possible happiness. You have been in every way all that anyone could be. I don’t think two people could have been happier till this terrible disease came. I can’t fight it any longer. I know that I am spoiling your life, that without me you could work. And you will now…I know. You see I can’t even write this properly.
I can’t read.
What I want to say…is that I owe all the happiness to life to you. You have been entirely patient with me and incredibly good.
I want to say that-
everybody knows it.
If anybody could have saved me it would have been you.
Everything has gone from me but the certainty of your goodness. I can’t go on spoiling your life any longer. I don’t think two people could have been happier than we have been.
What is it….we wouldn’t do for love?
Virginia Woolf, prolific creator of all that is written…and, possibly, not written. Let love’s demons fill her pockets with rocks…and, sadly, left only morsels…of what love could be.