rich and bright
those thoughtful days of my youth
when I would stare into the eyes of the sun
with neither fear nor care for my eyes
for what good is sight without the scenery of her form?
what good are fingers to feel or tongue to taste
if her texture and flavor be not among my choices?
what good are arms to hold or voice to speak
if not to boast about the way her Junoesqueness
drapes within my embrace?
what good are words to write
if I may not deliver these leaves of thought into her hands?
and in doing so
show how my heart does not fear the intense heat
of her corona
yes, I would declare her Goddess and Angel and Nymph
all in the same sentence
and give no care to how amateur my descriptions may sound
to the practiced poet
who might snicker of my use of cliché
I ask this
Does not the heart speak in familiar terms of that which it loves?
Would a soul use the same care-worn words if they indeed speak nothing but the truth?
If they would shake their scholarly crowns at me in jest
and say, “Friend wordsmith, have a care, you are very close to this celestial creature. And the things which flow in our veins are made of parchment and cloth”
and I will answer
“I will tell you this. There are worse ways to be removed from this reality than to be incinerated in the furnace at the core of such a star, as She.”
You can read more of Eric’s writing at My Sword and Shield….