Painting by Andrew Wyeth - "Study for April Wind"
The very cells sink into longing,
heart palpitating like red fist,
holding and refusing to release
a tattered vision, or several –
of the sort that dispel sleep,
hang misty over Sunday mornings,
cross the flames of evening candles,
causing them to stutter, spit, turn blue,
then hiss again with new air.
Longing like the migrations of birds
heading north again, wings cutting wind,
slicing life like a whipped pie, sweet,
light on the tongue,
like the taste of yours,
quick bitten lip, scarlet dot of blood,
forgiving laughter, and more,
always the need for more, the longing,
the insatiable appetite
for the last crumb, finger dipped
between lips, your lips, mine, and catching it,
and more, and more,
forever pleading, begging for alms,
stubborn with hope.
Even the ears are finely tuned,
unwrapping the sound
from other sounds, jumbled and discordant,
muddied cacophonies and still
unable to silence
the one note
that vibrates memory
pure
like song
and heart left wondering
is this pain or is it joy,
knocked loose at last,
or the final gasp of an approaching
finish line.
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