i hardly have time to turn around

if i stop

i'm that much further behind

i want to write a metered sonnet

in pentameter

as i did back in september

before the pell-mell charge into finals

every time i take a breath

my emotions catch up with me

i have to be steely-eyed, indifferent

to such inanities as passion

must put on hold

love and/or lust, focus on details

that taste like nothing, and leave me agitated

~~~

i'm in need of a metaphor

how else to put into words

i want to bury myself between her legs

~~~

must i resort to

walking the path of her scented garden,

exploring the soft sepal's unfolding,

espying the tiny bud's revelation,

tender orchid's enchanting musk wafting

among the tangled undergrowth, a field

of bejeweled deptford pinks, glistening,

rich as morning cream, sweet as honeydew

upon a hill's arched crown, breezes stirring

the slumbering hibernator within

the stigma's burrow, to awake, to yawn

and stretch, arouse and greet the waiting bees 

that wish to sip nature's nectar, to greet

all to revel within, to spread with joy

the gift of spring, and all that may yet come.

~~~

i am rodion raskolnikov

just as he was

when his mother set him down

amid a field of clover, and bees and breeze

without a care

or hint of inhibition

open to any and all experience

because 

nothing evil has yet come

to despoil the innocence of his love

nor scold him for unconsidered passion

i am here, and ready, and willing, sir!

to be and do

and be and do again

~~~

in eight quick months

we have become a couple

too sure of each other

too confident that what is, will be

forever more

i shake from my torpor this sensibility

reach out, bring her hand to my lips

shove the books from the bed

because there is now

and there is then, and if we're not careful

it will be then

and all tomorrow's now will be gone

first love's light burns bright

how bright the light of eight month love?

~