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Antique Light
Your Song in the Ivy


Your Song in the Ivy










How should I greet you,
yesterday's joy,
draped in vines that are
lyrics without sound,

something about letting go
without calling it a death,
but the doorway to life . . .

You gave me some idea of how soft
the love of God must be.

And that was too much to ask of a cat.

Now all I can give you is lacy rain
and your ivy bed with its
nourishing green song
and the scent
of spice and holiness.

Just for today I will
be like the clouds
that are swallowed in stillness,
then appear somewhere else
because change is the one
thing they do,
so they do it
with everything they are—

simmering dragons, misty potential,
unformed worlds.

Yes, like that.

The music of your sleep is unbreakable,
heavier than the marble storm
that splits the western sky
into angels and doom.

If I could do only one thing,
in this moment,
it would be to love
the shadows
as much as the light,

till light is all there is.

It's all so clear through
a veil of rain.

I pick some violets,
dripping with desire that
their short lives be more
than jewels and
royalty

and place them on your
glistening stone.

They are broken, then formless,
then cleansed.


Patricia Joan Jones






















© patriciajj1 - all rights reserved.

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