A vase of flowers in a window frame.
A house of gentle light amid dark leaves.
An ecstasy so sharp it feels like anguish,
The pull that makes our beeline an ellipse.
No transcendental morning's inspiration
So ravishes the things we never see.
We hear for all our lives a silent music
To which we dance unknowing through our time.
And even when we die, there is a beauty
Older than the cold December stars,
A part of us that waits behind the darkness
To take us once again into its arms.
Copyright by Nicholas Gordon