The torture of early Spring
This Sade season,
that prods the Sun from out its lingering rest,
the warmth of feelings tightly checked,
closeted in Winters cold embrace.
The tango with the sensual,
the perfume, the pollen,
the rising tide,
the ebb and flow,
the supple and lingering desires,
so long left denied,
The gaze, the grace,
arisen from it's lingering slumber,
aroused in song by tuneful revelry,
prised with creaking remembrance,
from Winters icy fingers.
The lingering swirls,
the dips of longing,
the Saturnalic twirls,
the ever tautened bow string;
Embodied in each dawns arousing.
To know the truth,
as it pulses in the flesh of reality,
far removed from the sleeping dream,
The chimera of the frigid and imaginary.
The subtle touch,
the soaking skintight sway,
as the night gives way to the day.
As life surges with untold purpose,
to begin in a whisper,
a whisper, that redounds in an echo,
blown through somnolent Winter halls,
upon a hearth,
buried deep within these walls.
The breath upon the fire,
arousing flames ever upward, ever higher.
To banish the frigid emptiness of cold isolation
coddled in that forlorn hibernation.
To know with certainty,
this simple breeze,
that blows remorselessly,
between these newly budding trees,
demands its voice,
becomes a shout,
a thunderous roar,
a mighty vestige of youth,
so long left unseen,
an aching longing, for more!
a power with untold purpose,
a demand without remittance,
the ebb and sway,
then on again this way...
the ever growing sensate need,
to gorge upon an ever flourishing greed.
The ravishing rapacity of life,
full flourishing in new growth,
the lusting of loves new oath.
The sombre entreaty,
as eyes awaken to the empty pillow.
the forlorn solemn places.
To sleep again!, oh please!
to muffle this surging tide,
with the sandbags of hope denied.
Alone, amidst the rising song,
the ever present agony within,
the torture of early Spring.
© Richard Michael Parker 2011