Doug Anderson: The Fool
At seventy-five I find myself in love.
Not the serene love of an old man
steeped in the wine and wisdom of years,
but one who would kill a dragon for her.
It does not die, this thing.
Tell me it’s an allegory of spiritual love.
Comfort me, but I can’t be comforted.
The snow is melting. The crocuses
are waiting for the moment to come alive
but I have beat them to it.
I rush to her with a body within my body,
reckless as the Tarot fool.
Scoff you will, who have died
month by month your whole lives
and do not know you’re dead.
Scoff, I say, as the moths
flutter from the eyeholes in your skulls.
Copyright 2020 Doug Anderson
“It does not die, this thing”: well said! Six words to sum it up. And if you happen to think it might have died, might be gone, might leave you alone now, be prepared to be surprised: it’s not dead. It’s dormant perhaps, quiescent, waiting, but it’s not dead…
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Well, Doug, at 76, I’m here to tell you that neither moth nor rust nor thief gives thought to entry where love is still all-consuming. You’ve got at least one more year of bliss and, from the sound of it, no croaking crocus or skull thuggery within sight! Croon on!
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Well, Doug, at 76, I’m here to tell you that neither moth nor rust nor thief gives thought to entry where love is still all-consuming. You’ve got at least one more year of bliss and, from the sound of it, no croaking crocus or skull thuggery within sight! Croon on!
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what a gift – to be the holy fool!
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