Scriptor Press - The ElectroLounge

62
xxi. Yearned
“Yet when the angels swoop to pick us clean,
they shall find that all our fruits are green.”
—Rainer Maria Rilke, 1903.
She sleeps in silken pocket of stars,
dreams within a holy emptiness, girded
by my many songs. A cry equally ours
unstills the night, its echoing mate settles
again beast & leaf.
Love blows up again, helpless, wild, she
knows my bidding & wonders how, I pass
miles in a word & remember why.
I remember a day & the tree you embraced—
all my life led to this singing for you.
To love you is forbid you nothing, cup
your glare when it nears & dances, watch,
sing, let you go, keep you, find a harder
wisdom past either. Offer love of the
nest’s kind, safety between flights, or the
way the tide swings to shore & away.
Love you & thus the world. Sleep, angel,
while I conjure a truth enough to raise you.
Love blows up again. I’ve become this
singing for you, this true note plain
& golden. This forever greening to keep
you asleep on high. Wake you to a
greater world when at last it beckons.
***
The Cenacle / 54 / April 2005