Now this soft light of treasured
days, after I picked up
from the sawdust of an attic room
a book, lost, whose fate
I had wondered
about for three-and-a-half years;
these moments of Zen clarity
after a great stone of my own
carving had fallen from my
shoulders, on the eve before!
I feel in the soft, bright
sunlight of a cold winter
mid-day the return of lost
days, of myself that
I had mislaid like a book
before a move; I have returned
to which always sustained me,
and taking the book from
the sawdust I have pushed aside
the old and tired man
who did so much harm
to those he loved,
above all else.
He is gone, disappeared
into the light, rest he
in the peace which he denied;
in the spectrum of myself
you seek in vain him.
In the soft February light,
in its burning illusion of warmth
and its cold purity of truth,
there is hope kindling and the
cherished years, long lost like
The Void Captain's Tale,
of a full world once inhabited,
return. In this joy,
which echoes in my flesh
and thought, I have crossed decades
to live, accepting, what remains
of the bright world's promise,
in the serene presence of
the beloved ones.
10.0.2021
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