We waltz to the door of the last room,
walls of fir trees weep in the shadow light,
early evening, vespers here while elsewhere whispers,
how lovely an arc we cut, the angle of the quarter-moon crescent,
a drawn bow torqued, string-tight ready, we propel us,
no one else.

Over the transom in step we sidle, without aim
we dervishes twirl, devilish dust tornadoes arise
where our feet once were, warm air lifts our wings
apparent now in sunlight, the huge gold disks about us
pulse our time, vibrate the gossamer strings, tiny harps
arpeggiate ever so slightly…audible, tinkle our ear.

We break the three-quarter time of the dance,
to promenade squarely in four, about and around
then again, and on, such is love past this last room.

Down the fire escape
we glide.

Chagall 2018

Advertisements