My heart is a wandering troubadour, living
off the land, off the reality you care for
the physical me, but mistake my body
for my personhood.
Others have said, You don't know
how lucky you are! I do have comfort
in my home, in the faithfulness of husband.
We think we want passion, but it's really
just hope we need.
I don't mean to be greedy, don't think of myself
as stingy. (But sometimes I do squint in judgment
before acting caringly.) What it comes down to is
love is a decision, always a chance to let it loose
or withhold it. Yet I mourn my loss of enthusiasm.
There is solace in the loveliness that often weaves
through the predictable web of my days. Today's
glittering surprise of morning sunlight reflected briefly
in a spray of dew across the green grass, and when
sunbeams bestowed in colossal rays an afternoon
cloudbank benediction, the pastel sweep of evening
sky smoothly merging from blush peach to gilded
gold, then rose mauve to hush of umber, to deepening
indigo, to the black oblivion of the velvety still night.
first published in Poetry of the Spirit Anthology
©2009 Bonnie Manion