T H E S C Y T H E O F L O V E

The high clouds form a wattled
gathering, like fallen mothwings,
around a sickle stroke of light,

the curve that is known as her;
mooncast, she peers at me
through the vapors of nightfall.

Here in the early hours, a long
running before the dawning,
she reminds me of my lover.

The curves of her lumen
inhere the stroke of the
lovesick, that time — like

her magnetism for all
waters, drawn tides, reflecting
the love lost, minded, now

by distance. And every
thing seems to take me
there, that further reach

into the melancholy heart.
She is there, I am here —
and the thread that is binding

the leaves of this folium,
rock sheathed, my heart
and the solidity of it, are drawn

together. It’s all about
togetherness, gathered
and untethered: what is here

held, what is there, withheld.
And the wandering of my
mind takes me to this, withal.

There is a clicking in the dark
grasses, and I wonder what
insect is pining. Waterborne

gurgles imply that some
pelagic organism is looking
for another, like kind.

A raccoon came to the
studio door, slightly ajar,
and pushed it open — looking.

And the real point is
savoring that this is there —
that it exists, this tendril

that weaves that loving
stroke from one to another
held in the mind — and heart —

brings that recollective
meditation, the contemplation
of the lover, afield, afar

as you wander your road,
striding, looking and listening
for something that right now

seems forgotten. Of course it
is not, hardly so — the distance
suggests the lost memory,

but it, and the recalling
are profoundly close like
a scythe of love, sharpened

clear, cutting and a
beautiful glint, seen now
in the darkened starfield

of living.

TIM GIRVIN
——
D E C A T U R
I S L A N D

S C R I P T S I T : 3.45AM