God help us. It’s a poem. I don’t write them often, but sometimes they come on their own. When they do, I let them be. Often poetry is awful; I hope that this is not, but if it is, I can only say, oh well. I had the best of intentions.
Also, blog formatting seriously messes with the spacing of stanzas, but I’m not versed (oy, no pun intended) enough to fix it. Do your best.
Poem for a German Lover
You could sing me eighties songs while straddled on my bed.
You could boast the curling lashes that I have always wanted,
Gaze up from under them and say, yes please,
In askance of my thoughts.
You could speak of this, the place that I might hold for you –
Ask if I had made my decision.
When I wondered what you meant, you could rejoinder,
Whether or not to come to Germany, learn German, and to marry me.
You could tell me you would leave me for three months of the year
To seek wisdom on your own terms, in retreat,
While I am free to paint my pictures, sow my stories,
And fill the floorboards with my silence.
But when night falls and morning comes
I will be found alone,
For solitude is not a timeshare.
Love means letting someone lease time in your thoughts.
My thoughts are happy homeless;
My hours unaccounted.
My mother’s people name our nature from the Zodiac
And scientists call it psychology.
Take counsel where you will –
I am a snake and still an introvert.
The sun will rise on me
Coiled nose to tail inside my burrow,
Roots of dreams dangling overhead,
The soil of self-sufficiency below.