One At A Time

Crunching lightly, up the hill,
rising quickly, standing still
to share a kiss, take in the shine
of steady eyes and ocean's brine.

Rapidly, collapsingly,
the space between us wriggles free,
word by word and toe by toe,
towards one heart we gently flow.

With more abandon now than ever,
forgetting that we might be clever,
retrace our steps to shores below,
skies twi-lit, and hearts aglow.

Behind the driver's seat we crash,
melt hearts' butter on bodies' mash,
and then with one deft stroke it's over.
Twas a three-, not four-leaf clover.

Oh, dear God—what happens now?
What lump in throat? What furrowed brow?
It doesn't make a lick of sense
that feeling should be this intense.

After all we've only seen
hours' worth, each other's gleam.
But second hands do not love measure,
and a second hand my heart did treasure.

So what lesson might we take?
Perhaps just this, from William Blake:
"We were made for joy and woe,
then when this we rightly know,
through the world we safely go."