Arbiter Elegans*

When we were young,
we pried the cavern's darkness with our eyes,
and every autumn evening
we outlasted even day,
until our shadows blended with the night.

Then we turned away
toward the village where we lived.

For we had hoped that time
had lasted with the years,
had linked us with that past
in some enchanted string of moments
from the first to what would be the last.

Breathlessly we paused outside the cave,
our faces shadowed by its mouth,
our ears straining for her cries
(growing weaker, we surmised,
with every day that aged her).

But in December when,
emboldened by our youth,
we stepped inside the cave
(not half as deep or dark as we had thought),
all we found
was an amber bottle dashed upon a rock.

That was years ago,
and I recall the empty faces of my friends
when we emerged,
and how our footsteps scuffed
and lifted up the dust
in our dismayed retreat
toward home.