“Lovely night, exquisite night…”
Barcarolle, from Offenbach’s Tales of Hoffman.
Could I not have been a water lily
Cradled by the graceful arpeggios of the stream:
Acquiescent to my destiny
I would so rather be one of those
In Monet’s painting
Uncomplicated, perennially whole in quietude,
Pollinating without discernible passion,
Casting off spores into April’s thawing water
Than what and who I appear to be;
Before dawn, human and worn,
Dreaming, of the equivocal:
Of those I would hold, my serial loves, dispersed
To farther seasons.
In deeper sleep I ride the downdraft of predation
Or sleep, head under my wing
Unto death it seems, acclimated
To the creviced rock, sparse nest,
Inner song of mourning.
Meadowlarks carol: soft rains come.
A white owl intones,
In moon-cast trees.