The cruelest month . . .
is the month I met you and discovered me:
not a hidden gem, nor yet diamond in the rough;
no treasure to be found unless looking
for the tricks and temptations
that pull us away
from our better natures.
One toe in,
and the body soon followed,
conscience fogged and stunned in a hundred different ways.
No Jacob wrestling angels here! — just pure submission, exhilaration.
How easily we cast off
civility’s swaddling robes,
to embrace the shadows within.
Now, time gone by and clutching close smoldering robes of desire,
I weave a cocoon of healing and possibility.
Dreams die hard. None harder than those fancies
with no right to be —
replacing heartaches of honesty gone awry.
With any luck, the cocoon will soon open,
release a mid-life moth
with more sense
than to fly
into a burning bush.
I don’t dare hope for the beauty of the monarch or the alfalfa butterfly.
That perfection is best left for those who don’t wander.