A Solstice of Music
before, although, for reason of winter, a chill runs deep where death comes again to the dead. A whisper of darkness caresses the eye and again light makes no shadow through the dead, the dead we had loved, perhaps the best we could. The wheel of seasons rolls easy again. They are dead; they make no shadows dance. We too will die one lifetime short of summer, but, for now, we are happily mortal. The sun plays midwife to our senses, even as our bones age and bend, like music that drifts incestuous upon its ending. May the sun dream roses into being, as we sing, and sing loud again, the travellers through our flesh who stood defiant when the world pounded many suns out of them. How mortal are we to imagine a kindred fire in the sun? How immortal to defy the despairing want of light? When love is born of no beginning, though in love that’s taken we also die, we touch our dead slowly once again. And in this darkness, seduced from time, they touch our skin, the way one spirit caresses another, like a secret. No need of angels here, where love becomes a greater love. Still we know these angels’ blessings one by one. |
