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

22

Sothseyere

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.