Maybe we should get together sometime.
Laugh at loves too earnest, yawn at sex,
pshaw at the Moon's constant affectations.
What would we converse about?
Philosophy is fun in vague doses.
Nostalgia is okay if told like music.
Cosmology for a shrug and sigh.
But politics would spoil the mood.
So maybe we, should we ever meet,
could speak of how wisteria hangs
cascading through shadow and color,
at night. Yes, we must get together then,
after the sunset has quietly splashed away
to leave our air teeming with peculiar fireflies.
And of course, that mood of night and mystery
would lead our almost whisperings toward poetry.
How wonderful it would be, then, when we speak
to consider poems entirely too excellent to write.
We will sip our wine, clustering together like comrades,
to breathe over poems we nearly see but will never make.
This will be a visit to cherish. An hour of two strange souls
pondering the effects of night, wine, and possible literature.
But are you real or only written on the mirror of my seeking eyes?
[This poem, and any others without attribution on this blog, is written by Tim Buck and copyrighted.]