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To Nicole: May I Never Hear Again That You Don't Understand Poetry
By Lee Nelson
Honey, it's poetry.
It's hardly the poetry of two lovers living and loving
their chosen spent and irretrievable moments together,
but it tries, it tries to express
something, anything
similarly inexpressible
and if it succeeds,
or even falls flat
inches from glory for the ages,
we give it a name.
We call it poetry.
It's hardly the poetry of two lovers cherishing joy,
remembering magic forever or forgetting entirely,
yet reckoning years ecstatic and tireless
with hands embraced,
but it stabs at that pith,
and if it skewers,
if it cores and holds
the essence
of such a perfect delicacy,
it could be.
It could be poetry.
It's hardly the poetry of two lovers
conquering the killers of their original bliss,
holding their shared heart across the trials
of a one and only road,
laughing
crying
aging
evolving
and growing
the bifurcated oak
of their shared souls,
but it tries,
it fires at the moon
with rubber bands,
and in all certain defeat,
it could be.
It could be poetry.
Honey, It's poetry,
but two lovers dancing
to the original songs of two who hear
the world and one another
like no other union
will ever exact,
and nurture their rapture to the ashes?
Two lovers embracing
their unfolding and unparalleled soliloquy
to a grace known only to them
for all eternity?
Honey, it's poetry.
It'll never be that poetry.
Nothing ever will or could,
but it tries.
It tries very hard,
and this the grace and love
of your forgiving and shockingly
altruistic heart
will always hands down
till the coda of our rhapsody
forever endearingly
understand.
