The heart strives by strain

She takes my hand
and places it on her heart
“Gravity pulls at the grass
yet it flourishes
The heart is but a muscle
and like the Taoist cup
it must be hollow to work
Desire is born of absence
and empathy
The heart strives by strain
and absence is born of desire
how could it ever be otherwise”
She moves fluidic in the night

The grasses die in winter

She moves so close to my face
the moon’s reflection is visible in her eyes
Her breath
somewhere between vanilla and persimmon
“I’ll grant you the stems and blades wither
the birds leave the skies
and the night comes
But the roots do not die
the birds will return
and few are the things more subtle
softer
and more inexorable than the Dawn
Life is as relentless as Death
In fact they are Lovers”

And what are we?

“We’re players
in a game ages old
You . . . you know the New ways
and I am the Old
both as one and yet separate
Anyone can dance by themselves
but boredom must surely ensue”

Seems like a lot of trouble to me

She laughs out loud
under a sky dripping stars
“The best stories always are . . . “

Published by

Chyfrin the Celtic poet

Artist, Poet, Electrical/Biomedical Engineer, Actor, Playwright, Set construction, Educator, Lover of womankind and single malt scotch

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