While the sad wind goes slaughtering butterflies
I love you, and my happiness bites the plum of your mouth
How you must have suffered getting accustomed to me,
my savage, solitary soul, my name that sends them all running.
So many times we have seen the morning star burn,
kissing our eyes,
and over our heads the grey light unwind in turning fans.
My words rained over you, stroking you.
A long time I have loved the mother-of-pearl of your body.
I go so far as to think that you own the universe.
I will bring you happy flowers from the mountains,
bluebells, dark hazels, and rustic baskets of kisses.
I want to do with you
what spring does with the cherry trees.
Pablo Neruda, part of Every Day You Play in Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair
Today the air
and I take long thirsty sips
from the deepest, deepest
part of me,
throwing the windows
to the breeze
inside my chest.
Sunlight greets me
like an impatient puppy
at the front door in the morning,
washing over me,
patting my back with soft warm rays
and it can't seem to
of gazing into my face,
staying up late to light my way.
The animals are having babies -
tottering after the ducks,
rabbits blinking up at me,
lambs pirouetting with spring fever.
birch and hazel,
all are growing leaves the size of mouse ears,
nettles and wood anemones colouring in
the forest floor (green).
The blackbirds are singing
my favourite songs again
from the top of the trees,
tits, sparrows and robins are warbling in the hedge.
(I wrote this
and read it
and thought this writing
so I cut it up
and spaced it out
and I think
poetry is allowed
to contain nothing?)
Wishing you this much and more.
May spring whisper
sweet nothings in your ear,
the southerly wind
take you dancing.