Amy, light from the source shines over my right shoulder.
My face is in the shadow.
I hunt the darkness for a mirror
When I look into it, what will I see?
A face in the shadow lit up by light from the source?
Light from the source?
Or just a shadow?
I remembered your birthday
But gave you no occasion to see
That I rejoice in your journey through the days.
The river whispers over the stones that sleep
In it's path across the land.
When the fire goes out gray ashes remain.
They are clean and they require no explanation
Now sitting on a low wicker chair,
The light all before and around me,
I look toward the horizon's radiance:
The effulgent glory of father and mother,
The passion and pain of the eternal brother,
Caroline, sister of the hearth, whose dark eyes
Peer into the red wine of a full golden cup.
And Amy, whose eyes in the cradle saw beyond the grave,
Does clench and unclench her fists sifting and resifting
The substance of the abyss: the rainbow whose arc
Inscribes the imagination with the possibility
Of each succeeding breath.
1 comment:
Nice to see such reverence for your kin. Beautifully written.
Tom Street says hello from Allenspark. I am, in fact, your other brother who misses you.
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