to love
means this:
to run
into the depths of a yard
and, till the rook-black night,
chop wood
with a shining axe…
to us
love
tells us, humming
that the stalled engine
of the heart
has started to work
again.
I’ve been collecting my favorite poetry and short stories in a folder labeled Inspiration since I was 21; years ago, I added this Vladimir Mayakovsky poem (“Comrade Kostrov”) to the collection (the oversized note card it was written on fell out of the folder earlier this week).
