Enigmas like this
Don’t come ’round every bend:
How best he be told,
(In language aptly bold)
Of the love,
The constant LOVE
I have for the storm of him?
My impassions brimmed,
I aim at words to tell it all,
Make other love-claimers ashamed,
Though even my claim is not
To the perfection of his hurricane.
Oh, to imagine the hand of him!
To clasp unto his wind,
Round my fingers, gentle, spin
And caress with whisper softness
‘Cross his liquid-bronzed skin,
Lifts my heart in deathless swim.
Upon his head and from his chin
Undulate thunder-black clouds
Of majestic wavelengths long
Beauty of aeons unprecedented
When he speaks to me in brilliance,
My mind transforms in permanence,
As when the lightning of him
Strikes the ground
And dirt and clay fuse
Into glass born new.
The storm, his storm–my own private storm to adore–
Has a doberman’s loyalty,
Never failing to alight me with aweing thunder yawps,
Rain down his life-renewing silver drops,
Or turn over soil for a better crop.
With chin on palms, I admire him, jawdropped, from a roof’s top.
Were they to reach,
I’d lock my arms around that storm,
But how can I embrace
The intangibly sworn?
The rush and hush of him,
The squall of him, the all of him–
Applause for him, of ancient filled collusiums
Wouldn’t do justice
To match how much this
Man is blissfully Loved.
As I lay to sleep, his pattersoft rain lulls me.
When I wake to ceased rain, he’s still there, in the sheen
Atop rain puddled,
His shine is left behind
To outshine the ugly, the dank, the feared.
Find me words!
Someone hunt me down worthy words
Grand enough, befitting enough, tear-making enough
For him. My Love.
Search, I say.
Turn over every green, black, or bright corner of the land,
And when you’re done with that,
I’ll gather them and travel then to the crescent-shaped
Alps in Vienna.
To snow-tipped Alp tops I’ll climb–having memorized those words–
And scream out into the storm of him
That he need not change a thing;
I love his everything,
And nothing of storms, no nothing, need changed nor needs tamed.