In Mortality

By its four corners, something like a large sheet was gently lowered,
and a voice was heard by one, some, or perhaps many,
“It is good, all is good;
no worries.”

There, on a blooming field of goodness, a fading into night,
the beginning of an end setting forth a next start;
if darkness before dawn is an eye
to a different sort of tomorrow,
surely there is a fluttering of beating wings.

And in the melting of granulation into a murmur of revelation,
wondering about all that came before this gaping emptiness,
great thirst, and heaviness of light,
was all possible done?
Is the stove off or on?

Something echoes as through a corridor,
can it be music?
So unlike any remembered sonic partaking
or moment of music-making,
it seems unlikely.

This may be a dream that is not
(though so many have thought)
or perhaps a movement in the planetary cycle,
pitting every ounce of strength
against every pound of relaxation
to power the stars of night
and set the moon toward reflection.

“We love you, we love you!”
is heard, perhaps not by word,
or perhaps it is a bird,
chirping on the ledge,
in song or pledge.

Here, on this blooming field of goodness,
is the healing place and time;
as She said, “All will be well.”

What a thing it is,
oh, what a thing,
this on, honored one,
on, onward on,
onward on,
on.

© 2016 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen