when no one is there
and yet, it's blossoming, blossoming
A mysterious thing. Earlier today when I went to check the mail I received several packages. One contained an inexpensive 1917 copy of Maeterlinck's play "The Bluebird" but I only opened this, the last of the packages half way as it was difficult to open, very difficult even with scissors. I laid it aside to do other
things and to work on the revisions of this poem.
After I finished the revisions, I finished opening the package with "The Bluebird" in it, pulled out a little green-grey volume with gilt letters and in perfect condition and it opened easily at p. 201 which ends Act Four this way:
which I then appropriated to close my poem
speaking of the short history of light, in a way you could say, this is Maeterlinck's play and like The Bluebird this is also happiness, isn't it, mystery and miracle to receive from unseen long ago hands the dream ending to your poem.