Love-Song of a Commuter

Suddenly, surprisingly, every day that I live
I have love. I walk away from it, move
over the roadways, out: there is no centre
free of the swamp of self, the gust of winter.
Only a warm breeze from a distant land
brings home to me . . . returning without sound,
returning and returning, my thoughts wind
into a new beginning, an old end.
Love is the home, the high note, heaven’s sister,
the hurt, the headache, and the equal disaster.
Only the white light on the morning road
adds to the time of setting out, some pride.
But when on the revolting pavement I stand
and the sea butts away from me, dark-stoned,
and the ship of the blinding ways draws in
the human cabin takes me: I get on.
Pinned to their seats are butterflies, deformed
and beautiful. My briefcase, mac are framed
in showcase carpentry of transient day
The blessings slip away from me. I die.

But now the wheel is rolling back, and I
ascend, am sought, on a sweet-winded way.
That asphalt-board I kicked at, half-ashamed,
propels through surf . . . this sand, this sun have warmed
this erring self. Down what streets I have gone
to turn towards this truth, where to begin.
It is the eyes, the eye-house, that fine-boned
chieftain of sense: it is the expressive hand:
soft clouds of face, and temperament fine-skied:
it is my child. A weight of days has towed
me out: but tide of evening draws me faster.
It is the open love, the heart’s fiesta
held in the house. Then children and wife-friend
let go the working day, draw back the blind
I find a time to live in. None has found
more. And she whose journey too has spanned
hard day-terrain, is with me. That mid-winter
is cleared of ice: the sun is on my shoulder,
the sparkling waters hold me: I draw to love
suddenly, surprisingly, every day that I live.

I always wanted to call a collection after the title of this poem but somehow never did.

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