And the Constellations Winked Approval

Come
with me to the summit,
to the mountain peak.
View
the diffused sienna blaze engulfing
aspens quaking across a dozing valley.
Hear
violins weep at Beethoven’s command
as the shadowy fingers of dusk
clutch the landscape hushed
by the impressions of Van Gogh’s brush.
Breathe
in the rich, winter fragrance of pine
needles wafting on a gentle zephyr
the way a sonata’s legato movement
liltingly surrounds lovers in the night.
Taste
the dry, Serein River bite in a glass
of unblushing Chablis as it washes
the heart’s impassioned palate
with the honey of skittish enigma.
Feel
strong arms swallow you
in a protective and nurturing embrace,
warding off the cold, buffeting winds
that blanket the frozen, steppe wasteland.

I awaken
to an imagined spring
voice heavily accented.
She speaks
in the languages of every nation.
She leads
me into Paradise like Beatrice led Dante.
She whispers
to me in my dreams like Alba to Pound
as they lay together in the pre-dawn
dew anticipating first light.
She haunts
me from the four corners of the Earth
as Gongyla did Sappho through absence.
She leaves
the same longing within my soul
that Sappho felt for Anactoria and Atthis.

I would brave
the tribulations of Heracles
to witness one of her smiles,
gracing her countenance, to gaze upon me.

I would have walked
across the globe with Alexander,
not to conquer lands, accumulate booty
and subject people to the Great’s rule;
simply to hold her in my arms
in the moonlight, to feel her body
breathing against mine as my heart
would pound against hers,
and to kiss the rosy blush of her lips
between the gasped gaps of her radiance.

And the constellations winked approval.