It is the month of desire.
I wake up and find you
and hold one of those unoriginal thoughts
lovers are bound to hold:
we could be any two living here at any time.
Look at the red morning clouds
and the blue coastal hills that absorb
the salt of those acquisitive waves.
We yearn for the whole love;
we wait for it to spring to life
like the blessed perfect leaf of a beautiful plant.
Do we seek our souls through love,
the perfect shape of us that lives
in these rough shapes?
And thereby do we implicitly prove the Soul
and love's displacements?
Proof of the world fills the morning glass:
window, mirror, bowl, and spectacle.
Proof of our dying, well, it comes and goes:
each breath, each push
of blood from heart to palm.
This holding at dawn
wants more than versions of the world
in the morning glass.
It seems to want a twenty-fifth hour,
an eighth day, one further season:
the season of mercy
when orange groves fill our every window
and love for the first time
holds us as we have held each other.
Hans Ostrom 2013