A Confession of Love

A confession of love

To the act of poiesis

Empty spaces on the page.
Electric silences
pregnant with meaning not-yet-fully-revealed.

Questions, wonderings,
proffering no firm answers,
for none satisfy that open gaze.

Oh poetry! I am a refugee,
seeking asylum in your deep vales
where the shadow of doubt always finds sanctuary.

Where mystery and awe are daily companions.
Where my soul can wander,
free from all certitudes.

No longer
a dry riverbed of facts,
I am now a student of living and loving.

Life living life
at its own languid
and sometimes frightfully urgent pace.

The wind blowing, because that’s its way.
The lark drunk on his own silken melodies,
because he doesn't wonder whether his song is “good.”

And the one-year-old, over there in his stroller,
drooling with the sheer ecstasy
of exercising his gums on that plastic seat-belt.

I want to be that child,
looking upon everything in utter delight,
able to engage in deep conversation with a piece of plastic.

I want every moment,
to be a love affair,
a poiesis*.

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*In philosophy, poiesis (from Ancient Greek: ποίησις) is "the activity in which a person brings something into being that did not exist before." Poiesis is etymologically derived from the ancient Greek term ποιεῖν, which means "to make". (Source: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Poiesis)