Aiming for a creative life

I Am Santo

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This singular love crosses day and night, storm clouds huddle and spread in the sun. Cast long in light and buried in haze, it dances to the tune of heritage stretching back to Adam in His garden, a melody on the breeze of Nature that swirled around Eve and her awakening sex. And somewhere long before this care, it all began with kisses and the stir of need, a type of greed to make something of the present – something of a present – for the future. For a while it’s owned, the ardor that sculpts new eyes and the sights they spy; it’s responsibility and tenderness, guidance and foresight. Carefully tended more than any crop because this nourishment feeds experience and the raw, seemingly endless hunger of the oldest part of any soul. Once tasted, the dearness of fatherhood is a delicacy never surpassed. And that should be enough, those little fingers encircled in a strong palm and leading with courage into tomorrows of constant learning, but the avarice heart still beats even knowing better. There’s love and then there’s belonging and security, the stretch of vulnerability and warmth in the wrap of bed sheets at dawn. The soft moans of delight upon waking. Larger hands, still delicate, framed by hardened strength and gently led into new dawns, old dusks, twilights of unguarded breathing. The picture of youth shouldn’t be two, a lengthy figure reaching across the expanse ahead with just a single, smaller joining him – it should be three. Two hands holding two others’ hands. He in the middle, his on one side and another on the other, the bond of love threading through them into the richest of tapestry. The story told is one if hunger, of patience, of kindness and the fight – the war – against alone. All will say no one else’s hand is required on this journey, but for him, he needs those next spins around the sun as mentor and lover. Singular loves for a complete satellite of affection catching the suns blessing and dispelling the dark of eternal nights.

(at One and Only)

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