Infatuation, Stephen Dunn
Let’s just say
she was like the long absent sun
that calls us out of our houses
and into a promise
that suddenly feels so welcome
we’re as helpless
as any crocus or daffodil.
Yet I was no dumb flower.
All morning I wondered
how I might resist
a feeling like this.
A part of me wanted to take
the February snow
and the February emptiness
and make a plan so stoical,
so clear-eyed,
my heart might pause
a moment, become for once
the mind’s thing.
But there she was — at my door.
Let’s go somewhere, she said,
and it didn’t matter that the wind
had come up or that the cold
we were about to walk into
was certain to sting and burn.
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