JANUARY IN LOVE

 

What is left to add to the millions of words

in books of poems stacked on shelves around me,

as if by some osmotic marvel they might impart

a simple brilliance, a lasting, unfettered glow

that I might capture and travel the page by?

 

My early morning sojourns into darkness seek

reveries I can hear and feel with my hands,

well-apart from the blinding light of day,

that prismed cacophony of lies driven by

man’s ugly nature of greed and power.

 

I crave blackness under clouds and crisp

moon shadows in a breeze, redrawing

constellations from twinkling starlight

like the ceiling of the old Fox Theater

from where I believed Walt Disney fell.

 

The primal bellow of a bull or the prolonged

serenades of a hundred coyotes in the canyon,

January is a month in love at night. Closing

the distance between hoots, the owls

have finally agreed on a tree to raise a family.

 

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