Meet
me underneath the sycamore trees, by the river at the side of the dusty road.
I
knew you were a poem the first time I looked into your potbelly stove eyes.
It’s
futile to resist because irascible poets like myself don’t understand the word
no.
And
Heaven for me would be going to the record shops with you on a Saturday
afternoon.
There
was a snake in the pantry and I was as scared as a kid at their first
communion.
Katie
showed that snake who was boss as I stood on a chair and covered my eyes like a
Victorian lady.
And
the music is in our heads as we hunker down and take cover from all the monsters
under the bed and outside in the garden.
“Close
your eyes in fields of wonder. Close your eyes and dream.”
There’s
no stopping any one of us when we get a running start and believe we can fly.
And
I was frozen from fear until I looked into your fluttering butterfly eyes and
understood to heal we must first defrost and embrace the heat of a new morning.
Charles Cicirella
9/30/16
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