Now the Morning Whispers Quiet
Now the morning whispers quiet to a hush,
among the memories you’ve left behind.
Word-tangled no more, the heart-song will rush
along love’s veins and avenues to find
a speechless island in infinity.
Uncaptured at last, your selves’ affinity
with quicksilver and evening and change
will sit serenely apart from portraits
and mirrors. And so I depart from the form
and frame, leave behind the artful tapestry,
however classical and apt,
because it cannot contain,
nor can it impart
no words I write
can sing or tell
the sweetest
song of
you
Christopher M. Swan, "Song of Susan," 2008
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