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Michael McGuire
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When the World Was Young
When the world was young.
She moved like a goddess, Nay; she was a goddess; of fields and fortunes yet unmined,
I was her unborn lover; striving and straining to fill the scheme of her being with a need for me,
And she was all wet leaves and naked flesh; a garden of untraveled distance,
Longing for the blank verse of touch she softly peeled the fruit of the Earth.
When the world was young.
The desert was the trapped heat of the motion she spent forging the treasures of love,
The chaos of creation stilled and cultivated a pearl into the palm of her hand,
As the mountains sunk into the setting; sea level rose to the rivers of passage,
Her myth began to melt into the lava and fossilize into the readings of wonder.
When the world was young.
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She was the messenger of that clutching desire that lips still can only groan to express,
She moved the ghost behind my nubile molecules to fetch the bride of their making,
The unknown depth of ages gleamed at the bottom of the sea of her eyes,
And the destiny of every direction called forth the motion of her clock of seasons.
When the world was young.
And then there she was in garments of sun and rain waiting for the moon of my praise,
And I just some savage of left over parts incapable of the song of her beauty stuttered rhythmic static,
But slowly the pulse over eons of measures fell into a slow cadence and sense of melody,
And the birth I burned for found its mother and delivered her to her child.
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