how you can never reach it,
no matter how hard you try,
walking as fast as you can,
but getting nowhere,
arms and legs pumping,
sweat drizzling in rivulets;
each year, a little slower,
more creaks and aches, less breath.
Ah, but these soft nights,
air like a warm bath,
the dusky wings of bats careening crazily overhead,
and you’d think the road goes on forever.
Apollinaire wrote, “What isn’t given to love is so much wasted,”
and I wonder what I haven’t given yet.
A thin comma moon rises orange,
a skinny slice of melon,
so delicious I could drown in its sweetness.
Or eat the whole thing, down to the rind.
Always, this hunger for more.
— Barbara Crooker, How the Trees on Summer Nights Turn Into A Dark River
Notes:
- Photographer: Biswarup Sarkar
- Poem Source: The Sensual Starfish
- Post inspired by Kurt Harding’s post @ Cultural Offering: “We have become addicted to addition.” ~ Nassim Taleb
