The chimes of the balcony
trickle into the memory
that I was not alone earlier on the cobbles.
Followed by your echoes,
weightless and elegant,
like a flowing fabric
or the shadow of a delicate fan,
you came like a welcome reprieve
from the humidity that knew no wind coming off of the sea.
All of the valleys were choked and stagnant
until your scented form brushed by
like the visitation of pikake
or a rain that knew forests better than concrete.
You are the balm by which old selves begin to retreat,
the relief of twilight after the heat,
all the small glittering fragments,
fleeting as loose fitting rings
as day slips into night.
These moments can accumulate in trees,
with angelic voices and the flight of eucalyptus leaves
from your silver sleeves
it breathes freely by land’s end
and on the terrace with paper and reverence
I’d make amends,
with fingers and pens
longing for useful lines to describe
the legend of your disappearance,
like a sun behind the sea,
I’ll follow in your wake
with letters sealed in ink endlessly.
Cover Image “The Kiss of the Muse” by Paul Cezanne