Occasional Poetry - 68. Two Seasoned Sonnets

Unreachable

Each day I fight an itch I cannot scratch,
a neuro-bio-chemical effect,
compelling me to think, perchance reflect
on evils consequent, should I unlatch
The dark, unused, mysterious looking hatch,
that door to all the secrets I protect,
those deep desires I never did elect,
but once unloosed, I could not hope to catch.
I hardly dare to reach that twitching spot,
preferring still the torment without cease
to all the hurt and tears I would unknot
if I my inclinations should release;
but is it wrong to dream a twilight hot,
when all my restless craving is at peace?

The Season

The spring is come, the world is all a-strut,
each bird is full of feather, bright and proud,
so puffed with song, it echoes off the cloud,
and all creation seems to be in rut;
the sun and sky have opened what was shut,
the furrow open, ready to be ploughed,
and hearts with love prepared to be avowed
in castle, condo, cottage or in hut.
Yet roiled and dark the waters of my soul,
for love, which breathed its life o'er all the earth
blew not upon my heart from pole to pole,
but left me with a gift of lesser worth:
a carnal, fierce desire I can't control
in this the very season of its birth.