Song of Songs

And such a song
as Solomon wrote
to his love, his woman,
and such a song she,
unnamed,
sang in return!

Adorning each other
with praises and
phrases of adoration,
rose of Sharon,
lily of the valleys,
her lover,
like a roe or
young hart.

The sumptuous feasts,
honey, apples, green
figs and vines with
the tender grape,
The sumptuous luxuries
of spikenard and saffron,
calamus and cinnamon,
ah, fragrances so heady
and divine!

And yet she says,
oh she says, "tell him,
that I am sick of love,"
And I wonder, what is
that about? Sick of love?
With all that fine food,
fine scent, with all
the glories of each other,
to be sick of love?

And though of course
scholars far wiser than I
have far better
explanations, I can't help
but think I know what
she means, that anonymous
woman from so long ago.

For it is not love, I think,
that she is sick of, no not love,
but the thoughts of the heart
when her lover is away,
the thoughts of the heart
that possess and
question, and yes,
she sees it clear, I think,
though I cannot know,
I am no scholar.

But perhaps it is that,
the tides of doubt
that so many call love,
that cause great novels
to be written where
young girls swoon
over plots and subplots,
treacheries and dramas,
oh yes, the tensions
of the vanities,

And I think perhaps
that is what she meant,
what she was referring to
in her exhortations
to the daughters of Jerusalem,
when she said
"for I am sick
of love."