“The Cello Hours”
The cello hours born in satisfaction’s flowering
Struggle for the taste of sunlight’s ambered
Quotidian pause between yellowed evening song in embers
Of any passion’s flames, the body’s needs, so immediate, so towering
In the vertical for lack of space to run;
Steeper slopes too raked; some desperation’s blotting out
What memory’s suns’ refuse to yield–the stout
Resolve, the countenance of all volition’s fruits undone
By now and all but totally forgotten in the dying folds of coals.
We rush from one safe haven to another.
Absurd, but on this earth tectonic shifts that smother
Linger in the soul and while all the world’s aglow, the body sees but single goals
In search of yearning for the satisfied in every earthbound swarm:
“Touched or touching, now I tell you friend, I must be warm!”