Monday, November 21, 2016


For Sylvia

We've spent thirty years together gazing
through our windows. Before it's too late, I
want us to peek into a deep pool bordered
by fairy lanterns, walley baskets, larkspur,

and Chinese houses, where a snake glides,
eyes above water, and frogs, face-down, cling
to stone, where orioles and tanagers flash
through branches, where a deer peers at us

from behind ferns and a wildcat crouches
in grass near an outcropping of rock. Perhaps
a golden palace looms on some far-off cliff,
but the treasure we want abides in this window:

Path 12

a golden, equal-armed cross; golden cups
and plates on a brilliant, white tablecloth;
an invisible sun rising through a lemniscate;
a glittering diamond rooted in the depths.

This window remains too deep to fathom.
In some windows we have witnessed strife
and sickness, tawdriness and horror, reflections
and extinctions, yet in this pool, our souls,

with birds and massive trees and rocks, rise
into exaltations of the sun. If some day
I am gone, seemingly nowhere to be found,
remember, I will be there, waiting for you.

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