ROMANCE Poem: AFLOAT IN A LIMESTONE QUARRY, by John Ciminello

Every day you play with the light of the universe.
Subtle visitor, you arrive in the flower and in the water (Pablo Neruda)

I float on my back toward an island
of small brush, sand, kudzu,
I trust the warm water and you to bring me
back to our beginnings,
the sweet chords of summer,
and the diamond lights more precious
than a bucket full of promises
from people filled with contradictions,
and if I close my eyes,
I can remember the magnetic north,
the reception of strangers in good company
and the natural lines of your smile.

Shadows inch their way toward a time
when we pretend to sleep,
like friends who drift away
and then return when the air fills
with honeysuckle, roses, and star jasmine,
even when I forget the specifics of
where and when the glow first burned,
I know your fire broke the spell of
a thousand years of silence.

I close my eyes to better float
away from voices on shore
complaining about children,
the price of eggs and how
money changes everything,
and with your hands, a gesture of trust,
you guide my shoulders through water lilies
and floating dogwood petals.

And I try to sort out my own contradictions
like coal and diamonds,
the sign of the cross,
or a vow of silence,
and every unspoken message
bends across water
like the court and spark of a dance,
the feel of a hug after a month apart,
and the tender play of light on water.

Afloat on our backs in a limestone quarry
we stare into the deafening silence
of stars where the past reflects
an uncertain future
and the chemistry of water
holds the memory
of you and me.