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Love subscribes to a series of sorrows,
an obstacle course of brambles and thorns,
to which we close our eyes because nothing,
neither wound nor threat, will separate us.
Flowing tears are not the fault of your eyes,
nor your hand to blame for the wicked blade,
nor your feet for the road they must follow;
a strange dark honey has usurped your heart.
The crash of love, harsh as an immense wave,
pounds us, grinds us finely against hard stone,
mingling our atoms in a single flour.
Then sorrow seizes on a sweeter face
and in this open season of pure light,
the wounded springtime seems sacred and blessed.
At night, love, you must bind your heart to mine
so that in deep sleep they defeat the dark:
a double drum fighting in the forest
against the webbed wall of thick and wet leaves.
Stalking the night, the coal-black cruel reaver
snips the green stem of the earth-nurtured grape,
punctual as the insane train pulling
endlessly freight of shadow and cold stone.
So now tether me to your pure tempo,
that tenacity which in your breast beats
as if with the wings of a submerged swan,
so to those questioning stars in the sky,
we answer in our sleep with the one key
to fit the one door closed against the dark.
Sigerson lives in the Seattle area.