Magic Sunday
This magic mirror day...
Trapped inside it: trees, clouds,
Sounds: liquid sighs: your breath...
Our soul’s second life flowing
Hot and reborn from hope’s cold ash..
Our mirror, our day
Of song, of firsts and lasts,
Of unseen whispers drifting
In spiders’ airborne webs
Loose in their geometry
To trail on casual winds.
Our short day...
In which sky and sun lay still
With us, strung aloft on silver wire,
Yet reflected in a face...
The cascade of moments, a shower
Of infant suns and ancient lives
Lighting up the distant dream...
This gigantic mirror of hours...
Shattered to a million reminders,
Each one with its universe distilled
From this day’s banquet and wine,
And with these million moments,
Each a tinkling echo of our day,
I reconstruct the puzzle, the mystery,
The mystery, the magic of our perfect Day!
First long, unencumbered day of discovering who we were and why.
