Like a white gull, caught in the cross-purpose of an opposing breeze,
I hang, suspended upon grief and this searing joy. Weightless, effortless,
aloft on these mercies, I hover ‘twixt heaven and earth, love greater even
than that which wrings my heart burgeoning beneath these wings.
Such gift, this graceful breath, inkling of the ageless I was made for. Ah, then!
unbound at last from Time’s enslavement, my heart will be home in Undying.
A liberated thing, from which sorrow has chastened the last temporal taint,
feathers sheathed gold in the sacred fire of that morning light. No tears shall spring
but they are summoned by joy, when Love’s sweet satisfactions are complete.
Not yet, but the holy warmth of this early sun, stealing with summer gladness
over my upturned face, swears that such things will be—this and the shout of gulls
and the salt tang of sea, hinting verities scarce imagined. And while I wait—
here where yesterday rests most thankfully and tomorrow sleeps unthought of—
my soul is awake, keeping time, so lucid it might be heaven itself.
Here, where hope first found wings, hope rises anew, replumes, resurrects immortal.
Wounded with love, exultant in sorrow (for sorrow, after all, only means one has loved)
my cloistered heart rekindles to the day, inhabiting eternity in this present moment.
One great pulse of wings, one mighty cry of desperate joy, and I am off,