Dear season of hesitant but clearing light,

I see a trace of moon yet, though morning
is fully on its way. What flutters through
the screens of bamboo as if on the strains
of a highland flute? I love those times
when the body has not completely left
what embraced it last; when coming
down the stairs it glances back at the bed
where it lay, reviewing the rousing
and the gathering up of things, the lingering
farewell; unlatching doors, going out
and walking past the jasmine bushes just
starting to put out their little stars.

 

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

Series Navigation← Le Déjeuner sur l’herbe[poem temporarily removed by author] →

1 Comment


  1. A NOCTURNAL FUGUE

    I love those times/when the body has not completely left/what embraced it last.

    1.
    By sunrise, the strain on the highland flute
    has reached a decrescendo ending a sky dance:
    the moon fades, the sun rises, a tale told
    often enough it has spawned its own legend:
    they are lovers who must in the morning part
    as a besotted night must leave its rising day
    like one whose body cannot completely leave
    what embraced it last. Like love lost and found.

    2.
    What magic these celestial wonders have
    over the awestruck and fevered lovers
    vanishes like the lambent moonglow at sunrise,
    when the moon glimmers into its dying pallor,
    its lingering light languidly laving the river
    stream that ends around the dreamer’s bend.
    A ravenous sun eats all that evening splendour
    sworn to by all hearts that have loved and lost.

    –Albert B. Casuga
    04-20-11

    Reply

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