Ricardo and I celebrated our 47th wedding annniversary this past week! What does that have to do with Poetry Friday? It gives me an excuse to post a love poem that is a favourite of mine, and which reminds me, in an offbeat way, of our own romance.
I haven’t been able to discover anything about the poet, so if you know of his work, do leave me a comment. I found this poem in The New Yorker, years ago.
In a light mist, in lamplight, your perfect face
caught in the black branches and creamy mauves
of the tulip tree–and a moon that saves
itself behind the mist, light that seems less
brilliant as it softens to silver. Light
could never penetrate the dress you wore,
black below your shoulders’ whiteness, whose white
remembered, is marble laved with rain. From where
I look back, it still seems as if you’d leave
me then. That was when I fell in love.
Later, we drank Sambuca in a cafe–
those checkerboard tablecloths–with coffee
beans dropped in to temper the sweetness. Then,
feigning chess with them: first your move, then mine.