Ode to Ivy
by Eric Andrew Schabla
the sun of Spring fills me with work,
sways me with the wind of day like a sleepless willow ?
but, my wild darling, it is only the whisper of your skin
that I hold close ? only its slicing light
against my hands, where forever blooms for us
the river gushes out your rhythms, your secret hips ?
should you leave me for a day
I will look in and see
your ruthless eyes, naked in its ripples
as the cedars fill their branches with amber life,
crowning shady weeks with wine,
so you have drenched my heart
in warm footfalls of rain-
punctual as the dark, covering our little house vines
I crave your longing neck,
the sensual syllable
you left on the rim of a teacup
the quiet darkness of your forehead ?
your name - :
the color of arrogant grapes,
the taste of your eternal fingers,
downpour on the parched orchard
before I knew you
my eyes were barren with hunger-
angry salt cracked on my lips ?
but now, dearest, the moon is your silver mouth,
curved in the crescendo of a masterful smile
when I hunt for you, I hunt the night for infinity
for shadow, grace, for each of your sovereign toes-
I hunt... lost with the howl of a secret thirst