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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 of you
as I follow the North Star home,
a thousand stars
lighting the way.
