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The Epitaph of Earth may soon be writ
Upon the memory of a glory gone
For all things bright and beautiful, that inter-fused with death
Like harmony and breath have fled as one
   -Suzanne Delaney 

A Question in the Sky

There's a desert some place, where the sky fell through,
as the monsoons of March fervently proclaim, Must it be?
And there's a gardener some place      (looking just like you)
whose heart now floats on what can only be called Hydrangea Sea.
And there's a question in the sky, that makes me wonder why,
we think for a moment, we can do better than this our planet.
For if we're made from Dust, why not share some love,
for the ground beneath you      (do you see what's peeking through?)
For love is a fragile seed and if we don't care for it
the Epitaph of Earth may soon be writ.

... and what an elegy it would conjure! But I will weep just like a songbird,
for these tears, they carry a rebellious sheen,
taking me to the place of dandelions dreams,
that grow all the more because of it - watch as they glide
into skies unwritten - avenues forbidden ...
... but forget not your roots on the summer lawn
where malachite grass bid you good cheer,
green with envy at your escapade into azure folds.
Now only the voice of cicadas touch the dawn,
upon the memory of a glory gone.

But we will wait for you, Oh Gossamer King,
though we be tickled by twilight's tender touch,
intermixed sweetly with a hard kind of love.
If I must fall, knock me onto my back, Oh Life!
Onto the dew-laden blades, gazing up at stars,
so I might come to grips with smallness, like Biblical Seth
once did, ushering in future glory, though just a man.
"Appointed" just like the monsoons, that forged tombs, and summer blooms;
make merry the streams of laughing tears that Yeshua wept,
for all things bright and beautiful, that inter-fused with death.

And though often we may not know the reason
we must hold onto the hope       there is a season!
A purpose for this downtime... purpose for this rhyme
For we all have things we must overcome
(just look at the rose who bears a dagger on her dress)
Even she lives in the night, awaiting the rise of the Son.
May there be no requiem composed for my passing,
for I follow the crowd, with eyes on the clouds.
Let us leave to proclaim, in triumph, "It is DONE!"
like harmony and breath have fled as one.



NOTE: If you'd like to read the flip-side of this, where I write the quatrain and Suz expands the thought, please check out her informative blog on this intriguing form, Glosa, as well as her beautifully personal poem, "Living in the Middle".

P.S.S. The name "Yeshua" is the Hebrew reading of the name "Jesus". The reason I put "Appointed" in italics is because the name "Seth" means "appointed", so it's somewhat of an attempt at wordplay.
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