It's bittersweet
this peace
That in the arc of breath
peers
Into the holes not taken
that grow
From being dark and full
of echonoise
What might have been
-- what was
but never was...
The melody repeats
stark longings long deferred
While orchestral cushions
-- never more than auroral ghosts --
Are as voiceless as the sky
The fact of loss
like a gilded cage
Where sunset stays
ambrosia out of reach
As unresolved as what hands
make of time
The picayune weeds one threads through
to meaning
From some dream that burned
away before
For cold star certainties:
elegant denials, noble vindications
The final harmonious note
stolen by the red-tinged sky
Fading into dissonance
-- so rich and so alive...
A glow that holds the wizened hands
as they pass through lighted rooms
Unfolding and then putting back
things too small to see
Not memory or wisdom
but what must finally be
Some sacrament of love
