Muzak
 |
| This piece hasn't got much to do with this poem but I just finished it so I thought I'd include it here. |
A song is playing behind the clink of glasses.
It plays just under the sizzle
of homefries on the griddle
and the tinkling of forks and spoons.
It washes over the ones
lined up for lattes
who mutter into cell phones.
It hangs softly
more softly than the smell
of breakfast grease or toast.
It hangs in the air
Up near the ceiling fan
Where the whirling blades
chop and dice its harmonies
and its too familiar words.
Once upon a time
those words were perfection--
They were molten words
their music already coursing in them.
It was a song born like a child is born--
in a glory.
Once upon a time
this song burst into being
as someone's deep night rapture.
It came in a firework
in a rush and revelation.
A flare breaking high overhead
And raining eerie light.
Pure and potent and startling as a sunset.
As easy to dismiss, over time,
with familiarity,
as a sunset.
And once upon a desperate time,
a time of anguish and grieving,
Desperate prayers wrenched
from the very bones of love,
of necessity,
Drew down from the clear blue sky--
Miracle.
When there was need enough,
faith enough,
To force heaven's intervention.
To derail fate.
And the awe--
the surprise of it--
the teary marvel of it,
Birthed new eyes.
But time erodes like seawater.
The vivid colors of heaven's fingerprint
fade with wear,
The dazzle, the gleam
tarnish with so much handling.
I suppose there came a day
When even Mary and Martha
could look at Lazarus
eating his breakfast
Without wonder and weeping.
No comments:
Post a Comment