The little lifetimes of first love
All whirling and crashing
about your heart
like hungry snowflakes,
all the same,
does not melt away.
Love is what the battlefield presents to you
after you have vanquished all it’s imposters.
There is only the hum of being alive.
Nothing affects this even handedness.
Certainly not how long you are allowed to sing.
Eternity is a grooved spinning record,
and we go round and round,
forever guessing if we are a song
or simply the melody.
“There was a time, child, when we bought vinyl albums expecting every song in them to be great. Radio could play songs longer than three minutes.
These collections were often written and performed by the same person. I don’t exactly remember the first album of this kind I heard, but I know my instant reaction was to do drugs, grow my hair long, and dress in outfits that resulted in the grateful early onset of my parent’s Alzheimer’s.”
Women neither invent nor love machines. If you put a woman in a garden, she will grow what she needs—enough zucchini to feed her family, for instance. A man in that same garden will concoct a harvester to pick the vegetables in a number that the garden will allow. He can’t abide by just a few zucchini. She doesn’t have the time or inclinations for abundance—a tidy arrangement.