My most beautiful loved one, my conversation partner in letter and song, died three days after Easter two years ago. He left on 23 April 2014. Why should I be remembering him now? Because I never cease to remember.
21 April 2016
Magic Meets There Here
The yesteryear of speaking sooth to all and sundry waved its tail
across a broad bright meadow just last night. It’s silent; I’ll not fail
to hear its underbreath deliver precious words, like trains of sweet,
kind magic meant to face toward the place where you and I will meet—
but in the interval, as we must lie between the light and dark,
will you choose to hold my hand and dance and sing, across this park
where branches bear their weight three times in blossoms, staying strong, and swear
they’ll bear more magic times a thousand? Till they die, we’re near nowhere
the ghosts who swarm around this place will want us; they’ve so grandly planned,
we maybe want to carry shadows just a further bit up-land,
let fall the leash that held them barely, tautly, within check, and then—
read the leaves that love the eyes that shine their way: My way with men
is odd, and strange, and in its elemental place, more weird than wise.
Still, I see how much they catch in one sad sidelong glimpse. Who lies
before the mirror, night on night, examining what next might show
the barest glimpse of face within the glass your canted hand—the glow
of spirits glad as all good springs, cheerful as the dawn of May?—
Maybe if you let me hold your hand and dance, you’ll feel us sway
toward the door that hangs askew, a hesitant yet friendly pair
of ghosts who’ve sent their souls so far down this old path, they’ll always care—
and pause, with breath so bated, lest alone within the deep, deep heart
that wants to hear the moment growing larger, swept alone, apart,
and swiftly more than once together—I’m an orphan; so are you—
toward the meeting hour and moment—Love will know and see you through.
You will turn your shoulder to the hardest part, but look back twice
as often as you steel yourself. Your women own the soul-device
that makes the flow of song take trains, like nerves on land, and set them right.
Ring on your glad hand, your hour’s come round; your train arrives tonight.
Soothsayer says, and she’s my own and only soul, my spirit-friend—
No one’s ever seen me once alone; all love’s beside me—Lend
your tenderness toward the hour and moment when we’ll greet past fear
the million lyric ways and stars that told us we would meet there—here.