Tuesday, May 08, 2007


“I don’t want
To be bitter,” she said,
And magic is a wish,
A long, drawn, heartfelt wish
Between two people, one
Wanting the other’s
Wish to be true, it is
A watched pot boiling.

In one hand, frankincense
By the candle, in the other
Oil, herbs and stones,
And stories
Of wine after death,
Of gathering, of calling
Like some secret beacon;
The family comes together,
Bird and butterfly, stag and foal.

Each stands in that circle,
Together, each
That knows the other
In a succession of separate images,
Of atoms mixing in rising smoke,
Morning glories climbing
Over the lilac, opening, closing,
Of coming together in mourning.

The two women who knew
That home is a small flash
In time,
The fleeting lace of together
Draped around them sleeping
In a quiet house,
Could close their eyes
And still see the snuffed candles,
Embraces, and laughter
Of those tired past the point
Of aching,
The joined hands,
This most precious gift.

C. Bronco

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