An Open Heart

An open heart feels light and free.
It bursts with joyful anticipation.
It ripples like a fresh stream
through dark water
alight with sunshine.
Its corners are soft,
and it is plump
with goodness and hope.

My heart is wide open
but clenching now,
closing its borders
rather than risking
a shattering.

How to keep the windows of my heart open--
How to let in possibility's air--
How to ignore the deep instinct
that has recently come calling?

Latches are tightening.
Shutters are closing on the lovely light
that has flitted softly between us.

A Victorian Contradance

We sit, side by side, in a darkened cinema,
our arms occasionally brushing.
There’s a hint of warmth beneath each sleeve
that seems deliciously inviting.
My eyes stay fastened forward,
absorbing flickering images on the screen,
but I wonder what you’re feeling,
and I wonder if distraction is my parvenu alone.

On another day, in Coburn Park,
I eye your long legs
as they stride away
in blue jeans through blue spruce.
You’re conscious, perhaps,
of my lingering gaze
on your tall, lean frame.

Desire is swelling
too soon for comfort.
It begs containment.
There’s so much newness,
such nervous tension,
such clear uncertainty.
The dance has barely begun.
The necessary embrace is awkward
and quickly ends
when the music stops.

You step away,
turn your head,
and my eyes scan
your thick, gray hair,
and my fingers yearn
to sample its softness,
and my lips wonder
what your beard will add
to the kind of kiss
I’m waiting for.

At night, after you leave,
I lie awake,
listening to the ambient sounds
of a new neighborhood,
feeling the quickening beat
of my impatient heart.

What a dance this is—
a Victorian contradance—
where a demure maiden
with dewy décolletage
faces her suitor,
eyes downcast,
dark lashes shadowing
cheeks that blush with passion.

She steps close,
then away,
sometimes touching his fingertips
but in a way that vouchsafes her chastity.

Today, outside my window,
a modern couple
strikes a similar pose.
They face each other
with hands touching,
but in a moment
Victorian chastity disappears
as their bodies meld
in a tight embrace
of arm-wrapping passion.
I watch, enviously,
as they sway to imagined music,
oblivious to passing traffic,
comfortably united
and taking for granted
the ease that, thus far,
eludes you and me.

There’s so much possibility
in a beginning
but also so much risk
of getting that beginning wrong
by rushing to be
in media res.

There are steps to this dance
that cannot be hastened.
This is a time like no other.
If we can dwell in possibility,
as Miss Dickinson instructs,
sweet friendship is certain.
Deep passion can wait.