It seems you had a lifetime

(really just a blink of the eye)

to make the decision

not from a clutter of youthful options

but now when the wine is ripe,

the range of vision reduced

by what you’ve chosen not to follow,

the many things you will not do,

when the sleeping shape beside you

quietly asks, will you love?

The point of balance

or rift between dark and light

when illumination wins the struggle

dragging us from our inner cave

into the dim lit morning,

leaving the dream time

and drama of atonement behind

for what may rise on ancient meter

singing us, bawling like infants

into the here and now.

The stars don’t wince,

retracting light

from their dark surround.

Rise and bring what burns to the day;

against the emptiness deep and gnawing

light the fire of your soul.

Part of me enjoys

the dark wet tangle

that will not rise

nor come in from the night

where the mystery of owl

speaks to the sea

wings spread in darkness.

Stark white paper and midnight ink,

sun lit pale yellow plaster,

big drop rain flowing rivulets in the street

and your hair twirling in curves of fine silver;

against the tide of violence

something spoken from silence

like an arrow parting the air

with the sharpened point of love.