1
Fire at her back,
A flaming coronal, hair, black
Midnight, pitch,
Rivery, pointed with light, rich
As a warm rose
In the cold dusk of departure, or the close
Of a music, smiling,
Her mind at play, owl-eyed, beguiling
As the Sibyl, secret,
Sweet in the smoke of a pink cigarette.
2
Still as a glass, I listen for a sound
The Sun makes burning into Earth the wheeling
Seasons. Out of the roar one hour will ride
A wind. Again I stand at a window, bound
On a rack of moonlight. Eyes fixed on the ceiling,
My lost love lies in the bed. The while, outside,
As long as the wind soughs in the wailing pines,
A glory storms through rocking silver light.
He leaves, and then there gather, slowly reeling
Around me, mantic fires. Unlit, they shine
With the calm of hours to come, the fury of night
Gone. And all that stays is the gift: Healing.