Old-Fashioned Love Poem
Concision is hard when
a thousand thoughts flutter
like moths through old clothes
and I am idle,
a car in neutral.
I counted.
598 suns have set
since our eyes last
exchanged
a blazing love.
598 mornings
waking with you
between my eyelids.
A good question might be
why try?
Why keep launching
arrows at the moon?
Why try
being the wick
of this old candle
when flint and rocks
and sticks
fail to produce flames
in my world?
Of all the melodies I’ve heard
Yours was the melody
that stuck in my ear,
surged through me and
winged out
wrapping my body
in a sweeter harmony.
Surely today is no day of love.
Surely today is simply a day
invented to break up the monotony
of winter and
snow.
Surely a day like March 21st
is more accurate
when the growth of love
and the love of growth
intertwine up the cellar door
and meet in the dew-grass.
To me, the day has no importance.
Whether today, tomorrow or the first
day of spring,
my love will continue to spring forth
behind bars
and I will wait
trapped behind,
even if you did
throw away the key.
By Andres Alfaro
