Carpe Diem

Poets, philosophers, and all manner
of wise men have written
of the simple pleasures of life,
all that which is free
and without entanglements.
The cat’s rumbling purr
under the hand,
the play of light
across the floor of the room
during a lazy afternoon,
laughter echoing
through the quiet house—
all these are free,
and without entanglements.

There is the cool drink
during the four-day heat wave,
the massage the shag rug
gives to bare feet,
the sparks of static that crackle
and fly from blankets
newly pulled from the dryer.
These things are also free,
and without entanglements.

Further, there are thunderstorms,
the ionized smell of air before the rain,
puddles and leaf-piles that beg
to be jumped in;
there is the warm cup of tea,
the cashmere sweater,
the varied scents of the spice cabinet
in the kitchen.
All these things too are free,
and without entanglements.

Yet there is also the touch of bodies
under cool sheets,
the languid play of hands over skin,
the warm breath against the neck.
There is the scent of cologne,
the chests that rise and fall in unison,
and the hands intertwined
on the comforter.
None of these are free
nor without entanglements,
but I will take that risk
for your heart’s rhythm
is an echo of my own,
and even the dust motes
are dancing with joy
as the early morning light
creeps across the floor.