Poetry cannot be read. It must be spoken. It must be lived!
Just as a person cannot be read. Just as all love cannot be read, for I know what love is. That is, I know what love isn't!
It is not this turning myself inside of myself until I no longer know which direction I'm facing! It is not this languishing of spirit; this yearning in desire that follows itself in its circles until breaking, like some too-soon-forgotten dream. It is not a looking, so far distant that it does not see and invents what it does not see. It is not this crucifixion of decision upon an all-too-shattering will.
Oh, I know what love is. It is an action and an un-regretting. It is no Tantalus - far rather a drowning soul who learns, at last, to drink. It is the wrinkled inward-turning of the past, bursting forth in new birth. It is a voice that does not sing, but sings of the eyes of another, of the sweet smiling lips of another.
Love bursts from our hearts like a bloom.
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Oh lovers, there alone lies the father's true fruit - in that gaze; that persistent adoration, never once breaking and turning for shame. In love alone do we see clearly enough that there is no shame in existing; can be no shame in the simple devotion of his eyes, only because she is.
Though they alone are ripe, who look so, we companions who burn for shame in their stead, whose awkward eyes so quickly affix to the ground - oh, what have we to do but linger; to abide in our own unwillingness, waiting for rain falling in light or an Autumn leaf to grow in our hearts a readiness to look back into those eyes that look into us?
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