Musings #19


Like a two-handled urn, each side a profile

facing out in opposite directions,

or strung together, not long enough

to tail a kite for lofting –

If only . . . .

A backward glance of rue and alas,

wistful, lingering like a last touch.

That the past

– all its mean words and closed hands –

could be undone, whisked away

with wand and wave.

Or forward on to hope, the future’s promise,

Emily’s thing with feathers.

If –

conditional to be sure, pivot and hinge,

spun on a pinhead, a chasm to leap across.

But the condition met, fulfillment

is assured, lacking just one

– the only –

thing, a certain singularity,

easily granted. Three visiting angels

come walking, wings

folded flat to their backs.

Hurry, open the front gate.