A Given

It seems to me that
light plays games
with aging eyes

when reading a computer screen
or sanding a window sill
or driving on a tree shaded road
when the light strobes
and flickers

and darkness and shadow
intermingle
then disperse
with terrible alacrity

and you can barely
refocus
before the next spatter of
light or shadow

attacks your retina
like a windmill
gone mad.

The counterpoint of aging
is the fascination
of the maudlin retrogression
of the human frame,
creating the continual
daily melodrama
of irresistible decline.

So, fellow traveler,
be you eight or eighty
know this

you will and will
fail and fall
sag and settle
wane and weaken


until the reaper
takes your hand
and you lie still
swaddled in silk

through eternal night

And the soul
yet wings toward starry realms
and purest light
where dwells Hope
and renewal
and reunion

on avenues
where abide
the angels.

and Roll

pulsing sound burns out the pain

a river of fire
white hot
and
surging through
in a rush

light and movement high
on a painted ridge
swirling like a dancer

now ringing like an enchanted
bell from a distant cathedral

towering

now sad, now bright
always charged

like lightning.