Beauty will you sit with me,
At the edge of reality,
In the dark times of night?
A mother’s kiss would
Do away with unwanted
Dreams. Mares of the night
Yield to a Marian sight,
An aeviternal light.
“Woman, behold your son.”
Eve is the setting of the sun.
“Behold your Mother.”
The Sun sets on a corner of a room.
A web coruscates in the falling light.
Hanging, a caterpillar is wrapped in web—
Desert by a spider’s murderous intent.
Through a window, a thin piece of glass,
I see the trees ablaze, burning unconsumed.
From another room, the doleful sound of
C minor breaches the walls. A sonata calls.
Eve is fallen. The trees burn no longer,
Only dark-blue silhouettes remain.
Cold and bare, Winter branches tangle,
Arthritic and aching at a glance.
Then the chants, the varied tones of
Thin Winter air—Tugboats on the water,
Trains across the river, horns, whistles,
Whispers from another time.
And in my glass of water, a glint of light,
White, diffuse, a specter not able to disabuse me of
My heavier emotions. Still, I look for the
Source. My eyes search; in predation or
Prayer, it’s too soon to tell.
But a soft, white light is osculating the trees.
She hangs above me. I’m not forgotten;
I’m not unseen. I’m illumined by a lunar
Queen. Cold ice is white, it’s true, but so is she.
And she hangs above me, brooding warmly.
She keeps me till the sun rises. And when it does,
I look at the web again. The spider has not lacked
All virtue: He’s patient; he waits; too long.
His web of destruction has become a cocoon.
A Monarch decks the wall. Bells ring through the hall.