Through waves
of moonspill,
into the
simple mind
of darkness,

of nowhere,

where all
potential lives,
I rest, at last.

I knew romance,
quite well, in
a youth-lit place,
but it ran
too fast,
talked too loud,
cried too much,
betrayed
like a
maniacal dove,

but an ocean
of glass
and welcome questions—
crisp blackness
pierced by
white screams—
and the presence
of a Force
there is no
worthy word for:

Now that
is something to
run after,
to cry,
in a cleansing way,
about, to
reach deep for
until we see
far into that
peace
between the stars

and witness
the spectacle
of stillness,
fall to its
lofty depths,

inhabit the void
until all
is so utterly,
unspeakably,
clear.

So there it is:
There exists
an imperishable,
flawless love.

Now what?

Anything we can imagine . . .


Patricia Joan Jones