The Forests Of The Sweetest Youngest Day Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Alma- you are the soul of the muse:
You are whatever she has burning like a pearl or a lucky
Marble down deep in her bosom,
And even if you never come I will cherish you, because you are
The first inkling of what I have come to reason:
You are the beautiful mother protecting her young, while
All of the cars drive by at night,
And the airplanes leap, while the birds preen so prettily through
The yards of dens:
And I have lived another eight years than you, and I think all of the
Empty mailboxes salivating for your rich brown skin:
How far back does it go, through the forests where the grandmothers
Of mariposas go to expire:
I loved you like a word on the wire, and you said it was a lie;
But if it was a lie, Alma- it was one that can never die, but spread
Like wildfire riding ungilded stallions fast across the land,
Their hoofs stamping on the green cloths whose virgin appeared our
Superman;
And I love you, Alma, like the first light in the sky; and if I don’t
Love you, the airplanes will go to sleep in the sea,
And the songs that lay stolen from my ribs will yet go unsung:
But if I love you, then let us both hold hands and go into a country
Populated by youth- Where death is a lie,
And your eyes shine the movies of undeniable truth
For the parking lots of sweet young boys amidst which I lay,
And pray to you forever through the forests of the sweetest youngest day.