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There are times when yearning
subsides, a moment
in the morning with only twittering birds for company,
the sun is young and a slight breeze ripples Egyptian grass.
Stillness is a pool in which to swim, air brushes
arm and forehead with the long hair of a dancer.
Or times when small bouquets of roses adorn each room,
tea roses, yellow roses, red roses hard as fingernail polish,
parchment white roses, velvet and silk roses, roses weary
after love, the hour not relevant, thick cotton sheets aside,
the day not counted, Tuesday or Sunday, no matter, anytime.
This is not about completion: the rent heart is not at issue,
the imagined sister is not missing. Once at a concert
in a palace in Gratz, bewildered by the exquisite lights,
I dreamed a life devoted to beauty.
Poem © Charles Levenstein 2005. All rights reserved.
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