Eventually, we learn that love is
as seasonal as potatoes.
Long days of sunshine are followed by short, lusty nights.
Long nights of easeful meditation are followed by doleful,
Even sex is squeezed by moon, sun, and stars into potato pancakes
and candy canes.
Nor do we know what tides pull on our
Way down deep below the senses is
another sort of love,
As equable as the bottom of the sea.
Yet its currents are more powerful than bullrushes,
More seductive than the fragrance of orange blossoms.
At noon it is not heated by the sun,
Nor is it chilled by the midnight mourner's
Copyright by Nicholas Gordon