Revisited.

If I could but know you, this life over;
I met you once when time
was kind.
Or maybe it was simply young.

I remember you like a perfect face
where brush met God
in a stroke of Divine,
mimicked
with canvas and paint.

You hang on my wall.
You don't need a frame.
I have you edged in
precious thought,
and
feelings far too strong to bear.

I like you there.

You move through time,
escaping age,
where wrinkled hands
and twinkling eyes will find you
laughing,
and us alive.
(We have no grave.)

To brush up against it once more,
like a flower,
its fragrance (accidentally)
released by the touch,

yours is that power
to conjure the picture.
(This is its child.)

Like seeing a baby,
his eyes a past lover's;
to hold what is now
second-best to what was,
cradled as Different
yet loved as his mother;
a secret
that no two souls
usually share.

If I could but know you, this life over,
I'd meet you somewhere it
will last.
Or maybe simply where is best.

And let it go from there.



October 14, 2009