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The Present Madness
for Phil G.

A scent in the air
as he enters the room,
sweet and undefinable
yet fixed in the memory
like the intensity
of freshly hewn summer grass.

As if with swollen tongue,
I am incapable of speech
once his entrance is made,
left only with vagueries
about the weather and time
at the expense of true emotion.

If my heart were a harp,
he would be the force
that causes strings to pulse,
vibrations eddying across
to create a melody that moves
even a cynic to weep.

And even if there wasn't love
within him to be returned,
he would still be a tourniquet
stemming the flow of blood
from the wounds of the past
and injuries yet to come.