He stood on the front porch with morning as a new promise.
The mist of dew’s bated breath hung above the grass
as sips of his molten brew stimulated his heart.
This was the part that took the most out of him,
for he knew the feeling that was vacant
could not be replenished or filled easily.
Looking out, he saw the tendrils of light lifting
over the distant ridge, a bridge between dreams
and heartbreak – and he aches a little with each
rise of his chest. He was a mess, and he knew it.
If he could eschew these thoughts he would,
but he also knew it would do no good.
The brilliance of the emerging sun possessed him
as much as her bright light held his passion.
It would eventually come crashing down around him
and yet, the memory of that flame fortified
the fire that burned dimly in his heart.
It was a start.
The birds were awakening, and there was no mistaking
their song. It was a strong prelude on this multi-hued
morn. It was born of love and hope, and he could cope
with whatever the day wrought. It ought to be good.
He would sip again and savor the flavor of lips
once pressed against this same cup, an interruption
most welcomed and desired. Again it stoked the fire.
A deep breath filled his lungs and he held it in,
remembering the scent of her as the same fresh
and exhilarating sniff. It was as if she was standing there
against his scarred shoulder, drawing her strength
from his worn and tired physique. But his psyche
needed mending because it was sending these signals
of glad sadness. An unbalanced madness festered
in love and disdain, an old refrain they had reconciled
years earlier. And in it, he just got more assured.
It was pure, these feelings, melancholy as they were,
for it was her who saved him. It was her whim that
resurrected him; it protected him in ways he thought
no one ever could or would. But she did.
She hid it well, much the same as the rabbits that pocked
the field across the way when they came out to play.
Their furry tenderness blended in well to stave off this hell
that festered and pestered his heart. She loved their
timidity and guarded adventurism, they explored
the way her heart had searched for its mate.
Guarded and tentative, a preventative to heartache
and breakage. She had staked everything by offering
her smiles and womanly wiles to his dark and brooding
moods. She became the sunshine that bathed his face
and lifted his spirits, and her voice as he’d hear it
in the trill of the sparrows at play. It was her day.
Valentine’s Day. A day when distant hearts reconnect
and reflect on lasting connections offered in breaths and sighs,
sunlit skies. Birds heard in the songs that lived within.
That silly grin when the bunnies leapt and danced,
and she had pranced through his life unabashed
and confident. She knew what it meant to be loved.
Cup nearly drained and a faint sound approaching
encroaching on this solitude, but not intruding.
He heard the door’s creaking yawn and his eyes were drawn
on the vision that graced him. Her face was angelic,
her hair thick and disheveled and a devilish look in her eye.
She offered another shot from the bottom of the pot;
a new cup with a bright red heart right below where
his lips kissed. In the morning mist they were complete.
She had re-awakened to his new day. He had nothing left to say
but a deep “good morning” and he watched her yawning arms
stretch to hug the world. This girl never strayed. She stayed.
Reminders notwithstanding, she had been quietly demanding
his attention, not to mention his love, for above all else, he did.
He loved her more each day. And today was her day: Valentine’s Day.
THROUGH THE EYES OF A POET'S HEART 