How very quiet
my Home
in the hazed grey
before true-dawn.
I can scarce
move
for the deep
drift
of coverlets
that pillow me
in forgetful warmth.
Two years ago,
this very day....
It is as if it never happened....
it is as if
it were happening
still.
A thrush,
vest of flared fire
denying its somber suit,
lights in spring-burdened
tree.
I cannot hear his song
through the closed round
of the window.
cold
creeps upon the
darkened floor....
it seems far
away...
as if I were
suddenly
a Man,
looking upon it
from a Man's great height.
How long
have I been
abed?
A film of prism'd
crystal
clings to the basin's face...
the iced water within
bites.
As it was then,
so it is
now.
quiet.
silence so
deep
it echoes
within itself.
I begin to imagine,
somehow,
that I may be
the only person
left
to this world.
no fire
glows, winking
in great-room
or kitchen,
no warm welcome
of loaves,
honey-glazed,
beckons
from the sill.
not even a kettle
sighs,
sweet
upon the hearth.
half a round of cheese,
yellow,
sweating its sharpness
beneath a burden of wax,
lies upon the board.
a cloth of faded red
covers
a heel of poppy-loaf.
this will do.
this will do
well.
the front garden
is bright and comforting.
the anxious song of
my cheery,
red-breasted friend
trills
against my ear.
so many,
the flowers
that wake
in this tumult of spring....
so many,
the songs which rise to greet
them.
I am lost
in a confusion
of sound
and color.
a soft step stirs the grass
beside me,
a hand,
warm as the sunshine,
brown as rich earth,
falls upon my shoulder.
Sam.
I smile at him.
Have I really been
dreaming
all this long while?
Something....
there is something
wrapped,
cradled in soft yellow,
held safe
in the bend of his arm.
A child.
His child.
I look into his eyes.
Today
they are like ancient streams,
full of little-known light....
hard-won wisdom...
wakening joy.
This is the child
he said
would bear
my name.
Now his eyes are quick
with merriment:
dapple-summer-leaves
dancing.
A girl child has graced us this day.
We lean upon each other
and laugh....
great, breathless
laughter,
followed close
by tears.
I hold this fair,
tiny treasure
to me....
your daughter.
I know, now
what
is precious.
You remind me,
there is still
the question
of a name.
The stars
would not be good enough
for her.
No.....
not good enough,
but too grand,
perchance,
those lofty names
for such a small flower
to bear.
My eye
wanders
from the sweet
warmth of the child.....
flowers....
there are flowers
like unto
golden, moon-kissed
stars
at my feet.
The blessing of the Lady:
Elanor.
It blooms, here, like her, beyond all reason,
beyond all hope.
She will be as simple
as an earth-held blossom.....
as beautiful
as the lights of the distanced sky.
In all my life,
there has never been
a Spring more golden,
a day more blessed
with life.
March 25, 1421, S.R.
