Crystal tears cascade
Upon a face, trails of pain
Healing in their wake

"We live only to discover beauty, all else is a form of waiting." – Kahlil Gibran

When they taught me that what mattered most
was not the strict iambic line goose-stepping
over the page but the variations
in that line and the tension produced
on the ear by the surprise of difference,
I understood yet didn't understand
exactly, until just now, years later
in spring, with the trees already lacy
and camellias blowsy with middle age,
I looked out and saw what a cold front had done
to the garden, sweeping in like common language,
unexpected in the sensuous
extravagance of a Maryland spring.
There was a dark edge around each flower
as if it had been outlined in ink
instead of frost, and the tension I felt
between the expected and actual
was like that time I came to you, ready
to say goodbye for good, for you had been
a cold front yourself lately, and as I walked in
you laughed and lifted me up in your arms
as if I too were lacy with spring
instead of middle aged like the camellias,
and I thought: so this is Poetry!

Ooh baby, look at us
We been living like angels, living like devils
Ooh baby, look at us
We been loving like angels, loving like devils, ooh baby, look

I tried this tried that tried everything
Call me right back right back don't you wait for me
I need you to stay right there
I'm coming right away my dear

I hate that I love how you always remind me
That tomorrow you might not be here to guide me
So full of secrets and all of that mystery
They say believe me so I
Won't take you for granted and take any chances

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