Fiddling with Romance
Posted: Thu Nov 16, 2023 8:51 am
Brucey brings to the dinner table
an accent so thick you have
to carve through an entire
grove of apples to get
at some semblance
of meaning from
his utterances.
I carve through
the entire grove.
After all, he's
my apple butter biscuit,
my pomme d' amour--
my Brucey Baby.
Slicing through the layers
of his sudden silence
proves to be
a more formidable task.
He breaks free
in baby steps,
little mutterings,
that require
delicate guidance.
We two-step our way
through three word
sentences,
and then
we find
a do si do
in continuous exchange.
Our romance sings like
the sweet fiddle strings
of deep Appalachia,
blue grass country.
I am flying in all things
deliciously Bruce
including the silence
of a stumbling sky.
Some will wonder why
I would find
a lover's reticence
so appealing.
Consider this:
I know the ceiling
of the stars, its quietude,
by way of Bruce;
the way it hums
in secret when the moon
is not watching.
And when the
glimmering streams
come tumbling down
in tangles
of whispering weaves,
so will we,
in the shimmer of
all things silent and holy.
We will know sentience
all over again, and
for the first time,
all over again,
we will know
each other.
an accent so thick you have
to carve through an entire
grove of apples to get
at some semblance
of meaning from
his utterances.
I carve through
the entire grove.
After all, he's
my apple butter biscuit,
my pomme d' amour--
my Brucey Baby.
Slicing through the layers
of his sudden silence
proves to be
a more formidable task.
He breaks free
in baby steps,
little mutterings,
that require
delicate guidance.
We two-step our way
through three word
sentences,
and then
we find
a do si do
in continuous exchange.
Our romance sings like
the sweet fiddle strings
of deep Appalachia,
blue grass country.
I am flying in all things
deliciously Bruce
including the silence
of a stumbling sky.
Some will wonder why
I would find
a lover's reticence
so appealing.
Consider this:
I know the ceiling
of the stars, its quietude,
by way of Bruce;
the way it hums
in secret when the moon
is not watching.
And when the
glimmering streams
come tumbling down
in tangles
of whispering weaves,
so will we,
in the shimmer of
all things silent and holy.
We will know sentience
all over again, and
for the first time,
all over again,
we will know
each other.