Beyond the ether and the mist,
far into the blackness of unknowing,
a heart beats, and to its hypnotic
rhythm, planets and stars, tiny bits
of cosmic dust and the glistening
tails of explosive comets sway in
concert with the echo that begins
so powerfully, then fades, inch by
inch, until it vanishes into thinness
and finally into restful oblivion.
Was it there? Was it really there?
How can I ever know? And yet, on
those nights of crystal cold, when
droplets of rain turn into long daggers
precariously suspended from snow laden
eves, I look beyond the limits of low
hanging clouds, into the black spaces
between flashing dots of light in the
magnificent winter sky, and, without
effort or intent, I begin to sway ever
so slightly to the thump, thump of
an echo, faint, felt not heard.
Why else does the universe throb
on a cold winter night when brilliant
stars are performing glissades in
response to the irresistible?