Thought Catalog

The Poetics Of Love

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An open sky smiles. Finger tips grace the freckles the sun has traced on thighs. The grass licks. The ending of spring smells exotic. A resplendent constellation arrives. Afternoon heat penetrates the wetness of the morning grass. The ground is sprayed in an upward sunlight. Sun beams rage a construction of stairs built from air. The clouds walk higher into the stratosphere. Gravity loosens its pressure. Light links. The dandelion blooms. The oak blows away. Flowers are sugary. A saltish tickle of tongues. The bite of the bee. In the buzzing, the pregnant promise of honey.

The shape of love is as amorphous as the curves of a cloud. The static stretchiness of honeycomb opening. Delicate flesh is a portal to another world meanwhile in the rocky circular Earth plants suck dirt nutrients. Pollinate. You have the most fantastic eyes. Atoms turn. Atoms shift. Atoms push. The atoms are on a mission. The atoms have forgotten their structure. The atoms have gone aerial. These aerial atoms push deeper and deeper into nature. There the iris surfaces. There Darwin’s chain adds another link into God’s encrypted code. In the touching, a kodak and chemical cradling of truth.

The bed sheets stare at a calendarial screen. The ides of May. Then June 18th. Symmetrical is the year. August company in August. Vanilla ice cream melts on pink-like bulbous nerve endings. Mushrooms fungi a manuscript in the forest. Time myelin. Here are cucumbers. Wet. Here are carrots. Stiff. Eat these tomatoes. Bloody. Lollygagging is a butterfly in the field. Radius magnifies. The creek filled with bubbling water. A bluejay. A garden. A hand. The doe runs by and glimpses the babbling of the sky and the embossing of the wheat. Out somewhere a city. Right here a stellar bubble. Girly lollipop eyes light with delight. Pink and hardy blue watercolor a horizon of skies. This ecstasy is dusk. Sound is cunning. The voltage of love is mint and bullet and jubilant. O, Oh, Ohh; A, Aw, Aww: Astonishment.

Silent moment vlys through the house. Floating languid. Floating softness. Floating dynamicness. Movement. In the vaults of love, the ultimate vow that August makes to always welcome September. And September’s commitment to always fade to the orange calendula of fall. November washes. December watches. The planetary movement, a holy cycle, coming to an ending. A commencement of a fold, folding within a fold. Within, I fold as you fold into an autumnal blaze. TC mark

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