As dawn arrives, it spills the tints
of morning dew on petalled veins.
The sun's relentless orbit glints
and wilts the fibers, slowly drains
the colors. Twilight's fingers pry
the petals loose, and when they fall,
each fragrant voice escapes, to fly
in windswept spirals till they all
ascend in feather-flicks of light.
Their vapor hues reflect the weight
of tears and joy, diffused in bright
fluorescence. They'll precipitate
upon the glaze of midnight's tongue;
return to time's eternal throat.
And then the sum of all we've sung
becomes one incandescent note
Fear of Grey
What if the essence that burns in my eyes
should succumb to the greyness where vacancy lies?
Will I cling to the fog and depart on its flight
to the ominous arms of an onrushing night?
What if my carpet of meaning should slip
and I can't find the thought that would steady my grip?
Will the warp of my reason unthread from its weft
until only the strands of its shredding are left?
What if my memories lose their array
and the curds of their substance leave only the whey?
Will the faces I love slowly ebb from my glance?
Will I know that I'm not keeping step with the dance?
How I dread the encroachment of death-on-a-crawl
and a twilight where echoes have nowhere to fall.
To Know Forever
Forever has no skin to peel,
no inner core to touch, no string
to tie beginnings to their ends.
Because its vastness is so great,
a measurement does not exist.
There is no "when". No sense of now
or then or soon-to-be; no thread
to mark the passage of our lives.
I ponder this, and wonder if
infinity is all or naught?
I feel a sense of awe to think
one day I'll leave this time-bound realm.
And yet I tremble at the thought
of knowing what forever means.
To know when twilight's coverlet descends
can ease the turbulence within. It lets
the scars from incidental sins dissolve;
a flow of peace can permeate our thoughts.
As thorns and burrs of irritations -- once
so sharp and vivid -- crumple into puffs
of air, we see their insignificance
and wish we could have known it years ago.
We must not waste the shortness of these hours
in wistful glances back along our trail;
the flexibility of choice that once
we toyed with is no longer ours to hold.
For some, their final call will come before
they've had a chance to make amends or wrap
the gifts they want to leave. But those with time
to touch the coverlet....can go, prepared.
© Laryalee Fraser