It’s 4:09 a.m.. Looking out the window, everything is dark and the street lights are still on. There is a fine rain. It looks like a shower of sparks where it passes the lamps. Somewhere out there right now there are *real* angels and I sometimes wonder if they know who and what they are. I wonder if they even prescribe to organized religion. Sometimes, when I feel very deeply lonely, I think I feel them in the night air.
And somewhere, music plays, like a child's voice, murmuring dreams and sharing visions in the predawn day.
Poems are sketches with words.
Images that we paint for each other
when we're away from the canvas.
Rainforest rain
washed night from my sky
and I turned my gaze to your photo.
I studied and pondered
and was mesmerized
thinking myself in circles
over the wonder of you
the wonder of God
then you again.
I wanted to touch your hair
your cheek
to say words that would soothe
but not tame.
I wanted to tell you jokes
that made your serious countenance
fall away like the rain in Paris
on Valentines.
The things I wanted, whispered outside
angels or memories
brushing the cold window glass.
I realized with a breath that
looking at you in a photograph
wasn’t unlike talking with you
in digital paint.
Because, after all, no matter a photo
or pixels, or flesh-and-blood,
it’s all just God’s own light,
bouncing playfully off our eyes.
The heart resides somewhere else.
Somewhere between and beyond
all these mediums.
The heart is where I stand for you.
"There ain't much to ice fishing
'Til you miss a day or more
And the hole you've cut freezes over
And it's like you've never been there before."
--Bill Morrissey, "Ice Fishing"
Why since I met you, truly met you, why sleep has become a burden. Not to miss a day or more? Not to miss a moment.
Happy Valentines, everyone. Don't let it pass unnoticed.
