if I could have written on an endless sky
the beginning and ending of your fraught
and mysterious syllables
and only in clouds that I knew would fade
Poetry, still I would have tried.
or gone up in flame like the least, scarlet leaf to find one gold
remaining song from you
in pieces, weeping on the ground-
one singing fragment from the ancient past of you still singed.
I traded in beauty the poet Sara Teasdale said
who left your words to prove long after her evening star
had vanished that she lived and suffered here;
so had she anchored so many goodbyes.
even in a banished Kingdom, in a mere and clouded handful of sighs
we still will whisper your name:even in the Kingdom of lies,
still shine with your truth:down to the last and ragged shore of our
breath
form of music;
form of the quenchless tremulous soul eluding death
lyre unquenchable through all ages:
burnished, anguished, raging ineffable heart
streaming with all the Maypole ribbons of your art
world without end do not leave us orphaned
at the core of all speech
forever beautiful and just beyond our reach.
touchstone, high watermark of God Himself may you prevail.
mary angela douglas 16 april 2021;23 april 2023
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