love

It occurs to me that there are those who will try to lay this upon a given muse. Don't insult yourself with that ignorance. It is a generic statement of the will to love. Love is not without pain, without struggle. It is a native state of the spirit of the human condition, but so is pregnancy and childbirth, and similarly does not proceed without discomfort and pain, so what arrogant bastard thinks love is all hearts and flowers and love songs? In this graceless age, in particular, it is rare as a leprechaun at dawn, and as magical. As such it is to be sought, fought for, and cherished. I salute anyone with the couer rage to love and the will to hang on with both hands, ten toes and their teeth (not too hard there, please, you'll leave a mark). I am not unmoved by certain presence in my sphere, but I am waiting for cause to waken and rise. I am in no hurry, but I am not so presumptive to think that I control the frame of my life. I seek, I pray for, and to the best of my ability, I follow, the path.

love

Harvest the thought that was regent and rare,
an air upon an harmonic desire
to cap our life and tone with tender care,
to pull our hands from the hot sparks and fire
that would consume us down to smoke and ash.
Mottled, bottled memory of a time
when we were proud, cresting as the waves crash
on inarticulate sands, in a prime
that marks not clock or purse, but energies
released and not ceased in the face of pain
that strives to drive us to unwilling knees
before we speak its name, in flames, again.
But we love because we can and as such
we are made immortal to tempests' touch.


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.