The Last Gift of Time
by Carolyn Heilbrun
A rising tide of inner shadows
presages the emergence
of an exotic bird from one of
the few remaining
groves of trees
we used to call a forest.
And this brightly plumed,
anachronistic, exultant
vision of a word-----
winged and incarnate,
sings a line never before heard,
flies beside me for a moment
or two,
leaving me to find the thoughts
with which to bracket
and elucidate
its song.
Struggling beyond the wondrous words
of others--------
inspired,
we pitch through obscure doors
into mirrored halls of a hidden
inner ballroom,
and dance hypnotically
with a self we barely knew
existed.
Ballrooms in emotive caves blooming
within a cognitive mountain,
and carving winding, wordy passages
venting to the surface,
releasing aromas inhaled by
briefly passing hikers focused on their
ascent.
Occasional nonsense
plagiarizing pseudo-reality for sense,
and dancing with it during a moment
of heavenly words--------
Music without notes,
similar to love.
One banters
with the soft data of the soul,
striving beyond the message
and toward the music of words
beyond the banality
of simply living.
“Beyond” is the key,
and one struggles to find the door----
is left for the while
holding the key
And then realizing
that there is only the key----
no door.
One relaxes, finally,
with the words which appear
to be keynoting something more
---- the musical score
of the sound of a falling tear.