And The Moon And The Stars And The World
Poem By Charles Bukowski
Your icy reign almost an end,
stolen bride prepares her return to light.
Emerging from the dark chrysalis of your bed,
pulling green shoots from your black depths,
she drags them to her mother
who, once more, will relent her curse:
Does your annual arrangement still rankle
after all these centuries?
Do you brood each lonely half year,
gnashing teeth in rage?
Does th'intensity of your longing
melt Gaia's very core?
Or, is grief buried behind veiled lids,
beneath mountain ranges, frozen in granite
holding pain in some test of contemplation?
Observed details of her absence:
dishes stacked in sink;
centerpiece fill'd with blackened fruit;
clothes strewn (a mathematical proof of Chaos):
empty pizza boxes; crushed beer cans;
& a carpet that crunches with each step...
Fiercely you embrace your emptiness.
Holding a scent of her memory tight
you squeeze, until light begins to recede -
th'onset of shorter days.
Anticipating her return, you call a maid service
to clean & restore your realm,
polishing walls bone white, preparing her way.
& at the instant when all is in stasis,
earth paused in its dance a held breath,
when eggs will balance on their points & not fall
cracking like your heart each Spring
she comes to you: bringing a bowl of flowers.
Your heart leaps in your dark throat;
Light fills the Underworld
& you run to greet her:
Copyright Hugh Cobb, Revised 1/06/2005