Age
Horatio Hornblower adored her,
from the first time he saw her.
her hair all amiss.
tatterdemalion jeans
kissed her, before his lips touched hers.
the nose ring would adorn her
before his diamond would cruise
aboard Cara Caraneena’s finger.
She loved the gray in his beard,
so like a poetic captain of yesteryear,
and the twang of his Southern tongue,
like a silver bell. His face like an etch-a-sketch
she never wanted to erase one year,
for his character drew her in, unlike
the young boys who tweeted and texted
acronyms, no finesse. And those hands,
master of the art of writing love poems.
She wrote to him:
O gray, trapped in a cage,
but for the tamer,
jump through the hoop,
meet me at the lover’s table.
He wrote back:
How lovely the lines,
your fingers slender,
touch mine, with
yours forever.
Together they wrote. Forever
they could not apprehend,
but two pairs of eyes
glistened through time.
Cloistered in their palace,
the old-fashioned carnation
and the wild daisy portrayed
flamboyantly upon a timeless canvas.
The murmurers and whisperers, reside
outside the pearly gates,
with puckered lips
just kids and old goats,
painted
with bitter-green faces.
|