The river is quiet
with velvety darkness.
The moon leaves her perch,
the clouds as her garment.

A trail of dreams,
lucent with meaning,
battered, not broken,
follows, careening.


He rowed through the bayou,
  Searching for the stars;
But the branches of the cypresses
  Had captured them in jars.
His little iron lantern,
  Flick’ring kernel of light,
Won’t discern though it burns
  Gold as sylvite.

You saw him there,
  A statue of wax;
You took your hammer
  And shattered the glass.
Though, like a bird,
  He’d molted his cloak,
You remembered the password—
  To which he awoke.


You did not know (for how could you?)
  That I was all alone.
But still you deigned to look at me
  And bind my broken bone.

My anxious wings had taken flight;
  The perch bore not a trace—
You taught me how to not recoil
  When human hands embrace.

You didn’t know what you had done.
You didn’t know what you had done.
You couldn’t have known what you had done.
  But thank you anyway.

Oh, Jonathan—
May your heart enfold:
Can’t you see your gold?
Can’t you see you’re gold?


The constellations still evade—
  I’ll climb the tree.
Keep ascending; no dismay
  (This I decree!)
I’ll catch a star, I swear, some way—
  On wings of chim-choo-rees.
But if I die before that day,
  Will you take one home for me?

. . . . .

There in that desert,
Hot as the stars,
I played my harp
And you the guitar

And with the smell
Of creosote
On the cool wind
You shed your coat.


Wending through the branches,
  Aloft in the sky,
Laughing and joking
  All through the night,
You found your love,
  To my great delight—
And when you pair embrace,
  I can’t help but sigh.

Let me bear that spear
  Thrown by your dad.
(“Don't worry or fear;
  The blood’s not so bad!”)
No!—could you have been saved
  Had I been there in time?—
For I’d rather brave
  That dagger in your spine!


Jonathan, my dearest friend,
  Won’t you lift your eyes?
Though you bleed and from there grieve,
  The seed of God’s inside.

I see your fear, though not so clear,
  For you take care to guard.
But you will neither raze nor pierce
  Your son where you’ve been scarred.

You hardly know how much you’ve grown.
You hardly know how much you’ve grown.
You can’t imagine how you’ve grown.
  But you have. You have.

Oh, Jonathan—
May your heart enfold:
Will you see your gold?
Will you see you’re gold?

. . . . .

The grass may wilt and flowers fade,
  But He steadfast remains.
And though carved ice resigns to melt,
  It runs into the lake.

For what are we but jars of dust?—
  Made that we may bear
The image of Him who painted us,
  Who deigns to hear our prayer.

We do not know where we will go.
We do not know where we will go.
We can’t begin to fathom where we’ll go.
  But—know it’s not in vain.

. . . . .

When moths at last consume my clothes,
  Will you remember?
Where stone-faced, dusty night arose,
  Will you remember?
When light endures its final throes,
  Will you remember?
Should I be lost within this grove,
  Will you remember?

When street-doors shut and grinding slows,
  We will remember.
Though hunters maim and shades enclose,
  We will remember.
All praise to God—the veil’s deposed;
  We can remember.
Because from death the Son arose,
  We can remember
  He will remember.

When, from my grave, the cypress grows,
  You will remember.
And when you sleep 'neath mountain snow,
  I will remember.
The epilogue eternal goes—
  “We shall remember!”
Forevermore we shall compose,
  cleansed by the ember.


      Oh, Jonathan—
      May your heart enfold
            (And should I be told?):
      Do you see your gold?
      Do you see—you’re gold?

When we feel the night embrace,
We'll sing our lullabies.
When we go to sleep,
The moon will rise.
The stars will smile at our dreams
And the owls churr in the trees
And just when all is as it seems,
A song, like lace, floats in the breeze.
For it is nearly our time--
And this must be precious in our eyes--
For when daylight breaks,
The moonlight dies.

When we make it out,
Our angel sighs.
When we awaken,
The sun will rise.
Though our dreams were sweet,
Now we must at least try.
The morning we must greet--
For the days fly swiftly by.
So we must wake, my brother--
And in haste, we must rise
For before we can blink,
The sunlight dies.

When we make it out,
We'll hear morning's cries.
When we awaken,
The sky will open her eyes.
The clouds will pour forth their light
To us, and all their rain to the sea,
And the grass shivers with delight
As dew-drops glimmer like beads.
Hold on to these moments, love,
And keep them in your mind--
For when daylight breaks,
The dreams you had will die.

If only I could live among the
reflections in the water--
for they are more real
than I ever have been.

Though they may disappear
with a churning, gusty wind
or a starless night, aren't they
more perpetual than we?

Perhaps they are ghosts, shadows;
or perhaps they are just as weighed by flesh
as we are--but can we know?
How the grass is certainly greener there!

We are but specters of vapor, imprisoned
in our carcasses. Are we so human
that the intangibles, the ineffables,
the divine ideas are beyond our grasp?

How short life is, dear one! Is it not more fit
to remain for a while, emblazoned in light,
than to wink out of ****** existence
without ever having lived?