There was a plan for you and me, from time immemorial.
Like the tendrils of a chapel vine, we were designed.
Spanning across the centuries the linkage crept,
Forging body and soul, yours to mine.
Our joy made men glad again, and heaven sing,
To see beauty win over such suffering.
But we could not bear a gift so pure, a
Bond so true, and cut the holy tether through.
Now history is profaned, and mankind lost,
For who can show them love, if not us?
You left a year ago for better things than brokenness;
Even the vacancy bears your gentle resentment.
I marshaled my power, a hurricane of words,
But the waves broke impotently upon your shores.
And beneath the receding storm the timbers and
Sails of our shipwreck strewn chaotically in the sand.
I am a castaway carried back to sea
Upon the rolling crest of your perfect silence.
You are the woman in the lighthouse, weary,
Descending the stairs for the last time,
And turning the key in the door, starts the
Long walk home along the shoreline, happy at last.
What should I think about you? Still shimmering,
Still balanced serenely upon the needle, but Other.
Where has your me gone?
And what of this noise you make, this frenzy of hats
And whiskers, the calcified poses and glossy pictures?
Have you always loved them? Did I, in loving you,
In what part of love did we partake that so little should remain?
The frailest part, or none. The glimmering blinding bits of a ray of sun.
It is twilight now, and I stumble. I get up to walk
And sit down for the trouble.
Who misjudged whom, and whose the better fate,
When unworthy lovers break the bonds they make?
What should I think about you?
Once a celestial fixture, now rent in two like the
Temple veil, we spiral towards our terrestrial fates.
Twin stars decoupled, our souls languish in solitary,
What vestige of our brilliance endures?
Has your love grown thin like March ice
Under which watery pond bubbles rise
Reluctantly to the sun?
Or do you feel an irresistible pull from above
Seize your wounded heart and, looking skyward,
Dream of reclaiming those impossible heights?
Do fallen suns covet the light?
Put your ear to mine and we shall listen again
To the echoes of our love as they range beyond
The water’s surface and lift into the bright air,
Whose words are these upon my page,
Giving form to thoughts I’ve never known?
They are foreign to me; cryptic missives
Of my mind.
For they bear the mark of ancient things
Too rich for my design, and give proof
Of ties that bind men to god and time.
From where do they proceed, these words,
That intimate so much;
That grace the world yet lay beyond
Our merely mortal touch?
Beneath their vulgar presence lies a mystery revealed,
The very fullness nature, in her modesty, conceals.
And life pours forth abundant in a space they define,
Where language unrestrained illuminates the Divine.