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Owen J Henahan Aug 2018
My feet are anchors, sinking as I collapse
into your arms; hearth-warmed fabric wraps –
your quiet affection – around us; communication lapses.

No words are needed, for the light fluttering of
our hearts join in subtle chorus, muttering
unutterable truths about love, and suffering.

*

Unutterable truths about love! – and, suffering,
our hearts join in subtle chorus, muttering
"no" – words are needed for the light fluttering of

your quiet affection; around us, communication lapses
into your arms: hearth-warmed fabric wraps.
My feet are anchors: sinking as I collapse.
is this not love? is this not suffering? are they not one, the same, indistinguishable, and everlasting?
Owen J Henahan Mar 2018
I hear the voice of the desert --
The wind-swept dunes of barren Deep Springs.
Or the elysian spire Mount Roraima,
Yggdrasil hewn bare by angry gods.

I hear the beckoning call of Alaska! --
The chickadee’s croon from an ice-rimed spruce.
Or the mountains of Maine in the autumn,
Swathes of arboreal flames crunching under my boots.

What does it mean to hunger for something?
What does it mean to leave the beaten path behind?

A plane vanishes beyond the azure horizon.

One day, I plan to be riding it.
adventure beckons, a whispered voice tickling the back of my mind. if you like, look up some pictures of these places!

— The End —