One Hundred and Fifty-Five Sonnets - 70. like tiles miss the rain

.

Sonnet No. 139

I joke as I tousle your hair in bed

That I had better pin you to the top

Of our Christmas tree as angel instead

Of the star that but plays the tired prop.

Buying that tree together, you and I,

The man at the lot approached us on par,

Calling us “Folks,” to in that testify

He saw two men in love – just as we are!

From bed we watch the tree, as we do now,

While the lights burn softly in reflection,

Your angelic goodness outshines somehow

That tinsel gold and painted perfection.

You are my sign/symbol of the season,

For in your love, beauty finds its reason.

Sonnet No. 140[1]

I miss you like the tiles miss the rain,

in whose very thirst is allowed admit

of longing like that of the ages fit

to free-fall and wet down the house like pain.

Below I am a person thrown out like Cain,

urged by soft voices saying: ‘accept it,’

but, I won’t be driven by storms to quit,

for the landscape has no shape on its plane.

Instead, together we’ll draw, and cuddle

near to the fire, under our blanket,

with our red wine flowing most abounding;

where all uncertainty we’ll befuddle

caressing such under the coverlet,

and find in love all that is ascending.