this chorus of blossoming: some unseen bird,
calling the echo that returns, so each
joy’s doubled, brings back its twin—
Whatever name you might give it, whatever
undertone it rings, each bright ripple
shades toward deepening. I used to wonder
what it might feel like, pushed closer
toward the front of the line— place
of dubious honor: the one called on
by whatever might demand a reckoning.
My hair not all completely grey, my hems
not fully rent or frayed; my nerves, my hands
not all quite wrung. I know the days we file
away will not return; this light that pulses
like music in a cage, go under the velvet hood.
The silver bar inside will swing as gently
even then: its occupant, slight of muscle,
heart large as a sea, will dream of trinkets
thrown into the depths. O, nothing’s ever lost,
only unseen, those times the light goes out.
—Luisa A. Igloria
04 28 2012
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch and Cold mountain (44, 45, 46, 47).