An unquiet stillness rocks the earth.
All the cries of the half-alive
must collect somewhere, on earth or
in spirit lands,
and I know
because I've heard them:
In dreams I've stood at the edge of
that pool and felt the flight of
so much pain like spiteful wings
slapping the last beads of light
from the air,
and all the cries became one
razor-edged scream that rose and rose . . .
like the reckless wing, it cut my
chest and it flew forever,
Oh God, forever.
How sweet the frothy light I awoke to,
my mind twittering like windchimes,
singing the dark visions away.
Why should I care?
The geese have returned with mischief
and redemption in their prattle,
and the lilacs will fill our brains
with amethyst till we shine like them,
and roses will weave ambition into silk,
and there will be light and creamy
air to devour,
and I'll watch yellow dollops of baby
ducks and wish they needed my affection,
and there will be the fragrance
of life multiplying on the
shaggy forest ground.
Why should I care?
Why should I peer into the abyss?
Because somewhere, spun into the cloth
of birdsong, and cloudsong, and green
chiffon fluttering
is a love that tells me to look,
look because it is as real as beauty,
look because one season is a stroke
on the rambling mural that is
never finished,
but one cry silenced is music
to hear forever.
Patricia Joan Jones
This poem received the Guiding Light Award at The Golden Quill Poetry Forum.
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