A Beautiful Madness

It is cold in the house,
the winter in April air barely kept at bay
by the ancient walls around you.
Steam rises

from the tub you sit in,
covered in water, scalding, or almost,
a single glass of wine on the bisque porcelain next to you.
Gentle blues rise, steam like

from a room downstairs
as you lay in thought,
the hot water loosening your mind
more than your muscles,

wondering, as you have so often wondered,
on the exquisite torture of love,
uncertain whether it is a thing of joy,
or worse than the inquisition with it’s pain,

or perhaps
a test,
to see how much you will endure
before descending into a beautiful madness.

About this poem.

I think I’d have trouble explaining exactly where this one came from. It’s been an odd long journey before it came out. But it is true – that our most joyful, and most painful moments come to us as a result of love.

The picture was taken at an antique faire in Washington County, NY.

Tom