Love Poem No.2
She was suddenly quiet that September
afternoon, then asked if I’d ever heard
the bells at the end of Copland’s Appalachian Springs. I said no, for I never had. So she led me by the hand to sit in front
of her father’s console where we leaned in close and listened all the way to the very very end, there where the bells chimed
three times so tender and she smelled of cinnamon,
there where I was beguiled by something I could not name as a boy but remember now as a man on this September day, and ache to feel again.
the bells at the end of Copland’s Appalachian Springs. I said no, for I never had. So she led me by the hand to sit in front
of her father’s console where we leaned in close and listened all the way to the very very end, there where the bells chimed
three times so tender and she smelled of cinnamon,
there where I was beguiled by something I could not name as a boy but remember now as a man on this September day, and ache to feel again.
I think maybe we always ache for something tender like this. There is not enough tenderness in this world, that’s for sure. Nor enough cinnamon. Thanks, as always.