Counting Two as One

By Roy Dean Doughty
Written 2/11/08

She has come. He has not come. But surely we saw the signs.
How the sky changed imperceptibly from blue lapis
To blue pearl, and how the heavens seemed so lusciously
Splashed with salacious pinks as the green lake
Enriched her trembling surfaces with windgusts
Of blue-silver. And weren’t the waterfowl, two by two,
Paired as dark fire is paired with smoldering fuel?
Surely, he, too, has come. Then why do the indigos
Congeal around each star, without engendering
Masculine adoration? Why does the moon cast
His shadow to the ground? Why does he brood
Behind that immobile mask? He has not come.
But the way the water has hollowed out the hill,
Clothing herself with gold, the way the voices
Of the immortals keep croaking from the crowded
Rushes, the way the crooning caresses after
Decades of weeping silence, surely, surely, these
Are the signs foretold. Surely the green moss
That has furred the root ball of the fallen oak
Is speaking to us through the tangles. And surely
The cavern exposed on the steep is the portal
To some deep center. She touches him, and his heart
Grows full and calm, beating its pulse in time
With muted trumpets. Surely the center is open.
Surely this rustling as light as an infant’s breathing
Is stirring him from slumber, as if newborn.
Perhaps it is true. Perhaps the blessing is finally now, and here.
Perhaps the lovers, embracing, have come together.

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