The Language of Love

Whenever she curses

the fekakta computer,

or calls someone

a pain in the tuchas,

or tells me “you look

a little oysgeshpilt,

geh schlafen, geh schlafen"

then hundred-year-old

oak trees dance,

then withered roses

blush and bloom,

then Spy Pond itself

turns to champagne,

then birds of the air,

and fish of the sea

and whatsoever walks

in the path of the sea,

then fin and feather and flesh

all exult and sing hosanna,

hosanna in the highest,

and the voice of the turtle

awakes once more in a

land famished for grace.





Poetry by Thomas DeFreitas The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 81 times
Written on 2018-11-13 at 22:04

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