Aubade

I came across this in the mail – it peeped out at me from amongst all the Valentine’s Day promos, ads and e-cards. If I were ever to write a poem about being in love, it would be like this. (Well, perhaps a bit shorter.)


Being in love with you
Is to abandon the piano:
It is to take up the castanets,
The bugle,
The kettle drum.

It is to sleep naked, with all the doors and windows open,
Fearing nothing.

Being in love with you means
I wake one morning feeling
Such warmth rising inside me
That I am suddenly confident
All snow would melt
Within my steady gaze;
And I dress quickly
To test this
On the crisp,
DecemberLandscape.

Being in love with you means the moon is full and the wind strong
Along the western ghats of South India.

In summer, being in love with you is red, raw and delicious.
In winter it is blue, lucent, and shimmers when touched.

Being in love with you is to forget
For a moment the use of fruit:
It is to stare long at the splendour
Of a green pear
On a white porcelain plate.

Being in love with you is old as Laughing Buddha,
And as fat.

Being in love with you for even one second
Is enough. The big picture changes.
(When the honey jar is opened, the whole kitchen is instantly sticky.)

Being in love with you is a deep thirst,
An undermining hunger.

Being in love with you is ludicrous and cannot be explained.
Being in love with you sneaks up on me from behind.
It is a kind of ambush.
Or worse, it is an avalanche
In which I am tumbled furiously
For a time, then stopped cold
In whatever absurd position the snow
Finds me - perhaps only a hat
Or a hand
Visible to the outside world.

Being in love with you is alpine and religious, naked and fierce.

In spring, it is green, resilient, and sways to the rhythms of wind.
In autumn, it is pale gold and fills the sky.

Being in love with you is centripetal.
It cradles and cherishes, yet
Confiscates as much as it confers.

It clobbers and clocks, then cloisters - but only to clarify
And cleanse.

It seems to cathart then catnap, but later celebrates
And celestialises.
It cures and cushions,
Compels and completes.

It is hard to believe
Being in love with you
Was once
That tiny space
In my heart
That has since exploded
Into a vast cathedral
Of sky
Under which I stand alone,
Looking up.

It is raining cats and dogs.
I am drenched.

Being in love with you has soaked me
To the bone
And I will never again
Be dry.

-- Michael Londry