To Marguerite while alone tonight,
Not even the wind stirs to brush or slap my skin
And I must remove my boots to feel the cold earth,
Prodigal with its minerals in its youth and
Tropical only by nostalgia,
Reminiscing that only quickens the hardening of its heart.
We live slow but die racing on this island.
And a picture of your name.
The sole light speck in the grand obscure –
“Who are you?”
I follow after you as my course of nature
And in the beckoning momentum I remember
The infinite times our souls reach for one another
Mmm. The foremost rays, their sweet touching once…
And forever how could I feel alone?
The institution of man, its heavy mass
Overlying these bones and threatening this breath
Allowing only for our memory to leak out and spill
Among the galaxies, as refugee stars
The seemingly random pattern, a vignette of beauty that appears when words align justly:
Elements following their ordained sentences.
That the mathematics of poetry and theology forms an all new design,
Unseen when daily medicine practice brews its sorcerous clouds
And music unheard when the devil utters its lies,
Wherein lines-letters-love only matter and loneliness dies.
© 2012, Amaya Engleking