A SWAN SONG
How often do your thoughts/stray among the vines of morning/glory, curling toward me?--- From “Each Question is Always the Same Question” by Luisa A. Igloria, Via Negativa, 08-11-11
They do not stray, those tendrils on the lattice:
I know they have taught me how to crawl out
to even the wispiest of sunlight, slivers of warmth
on the sill where I look out waiting for your call—
Halloo, is there anybody home? Where are you?
You espy on my flights of angst, startling sense
into some otherwise absurd tableau of prancing
dancers, a burden of memories I now cower from.
Where were you when coming home was good?
When did you invite your demons to live with us?
Why do they snarl havoc when I coyly beg, plead,
for them to leave what once was our only haven?
These questions are the same dreaded questions,
I dare not answer. I am old, and often my thoughts
stray among withered vines whose flaccid hold
on trellises stop them from curling back to seek
leftover rays from a sunset we no longer tarry
to chatter about, their warmth and magic gone.
---Albert B. Casuga