Like This?
At fourteen you want the boy, the girl to pay attention
to leave you notes, call you up and shake you up, to mention
how you both must feel like reeds, these grasses wild and bending
or violets, starry clusters blooming in bright moss, dark sparks
and oh, how elemental. How un-coincidental
this pull and push of sky and earth, how it arcs your tidal
blood and lonesome breath toward longing, how longing turns to light
and, dare you say it, faith that one horizon harbors night
and day both. You know it like you know your beloved's voice
settling in the ear, its silvered song, and pulsed counterpoint
within. You are not too young to know that this peculiar
gravity has weight, that what draws down the waxing pewter
moon is spin.
