Sonnet 53 – The Warmth Of Love by Dennis Lange

When under the covers on winter’s cold night
Uncovered are lovers, room bathed by moon’s light,
There’s no greater warmth than soft flesh against flesh
While sleeping through cold so the bodies refresh.

Or, walking together through ice and through snow
While holding the hands of the other they know:
The warmth of the hand of their mate for all life
Warms hand of the husband (and his warms his wife).

One man and one woman: the warmth of one path
When hostile the world’s stare in all its cold wrath.
And these two, united, are then thrice as strong
As one in a lone boat that’s carried along.

How warm is the couple together entwined
When one are their bodies and one is their mind!

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© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2016.

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It Was Not Death by Emily Dickinson

It was not Death, for I stood up,
And all the Dead, lie down –
It was not Night, for all the Bells
Put out their Tongues, for Noon. 

It was not Frost, for on my Flesh
I felt Siroccos – crawl –
Nor Fire – for just my Marble feet
Could keep a Chancel, cool – 

And yet, it tasted, like them all,
The Figures I have seen
Set orderly, for Burial,
Reminded me, of mine – 

As if my life were shaven,
And fitted to a frame,
And could not breathe without a key,
And ‘twas like Midnight, some – 

When everything that ticked – has stopped –
And Space stares all around –
Or Grisly frosts – first Autumn morns,
Repeal the Beating Ground – 

But, most like Chaos – Stopless – cool –
Without a Chance, or Spar –
Or even a Report of Land –
To justify – Despair.

 

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