Just Before Twilight

Evening,

forty miles west of Chicago,

a herd of whitetail cross

bone splintered cornfields

to a tree line in the south

where white oak feebly reach

for the winter moon.  

I light a cigar

and wish for a shot of tequila,

wish it were summer,

and I was pulling up

to the Baptist Mission in Texas

where my old man spoke the word

and the choir rejoiced,

when I believed in tongues,

in heavenly utterances,

and the Holy Ghost was immense power

seething within,

and you, the sacred vessel

I poured myself into.

My thoughts are of a time

when wind surfed the treetops

and apple blossoms swirled down

on an insouciant world and covered two beings

in its mystical cloak,

when I pressed you against the earth

as it spun and traveled

around a star that moved

through space and time

to a point

that exalted you

and love

sacrificed self.

I wrap myself in a season

when I walked in the hullabaloo

of a day,

in the bell

of a lost Sunday,

when tulips were a lover's bed

and wild violets were a bouquet

arranged for you.

I remember a ruckus,

a riot

in my heart,

a hooligan love,

a rapture.

I recall

a time

as north winds rage

at the winter moon,

and the Big Dipper pours

twilight

into evening sky --

my thoughts are for you

as I follow the North Star home,

a thousand stars

lighting the way.