widow weeping endymion

eye to I, the rushing current;
she wrote, with intent, in the sand:
 

If I sacrifice my bitterness to the waves,
would I be allowed, then, some
human vulnerability?

Some tender grief, indeed…

This curiosity was cast to the waves as a scrying
for which there could be a hoped-for answering call
from beyond the halls of entropy.

…asked as if the body were not some broken wild thing
crystalized In fulgurite spiraling towers,
perpetually in.tense, either past or future -
no present for life to live itself through my being.

…Solitary?
In the throes of a violet surrender,
I named it an intimacy… but does
this redemption not truly require
a potent reciprocity?

In truth,
I waited too long, knelt by the side of the dream;
held tenderly, yes,
but an abstraction all the same -

believing my coastal gardens of sandstone and evaporite were
safe from the inexorable turning wheel of decomposition
gifted to their floral kin,
mirrored in intimacy, to be sure  -

but is that not exactly what we found ourselves to be safe from?
What home could I keep in safety for the weary head in the waking world?

It is true - what is precious is impermanent,
made more so by the looming trajectory, vulnerable to
the threatening Andromeda that could
introduce the immediacy of presence…

…but if the body is encased in those fulgurite spiraling towers and
what is stone cannot be touched,
and what cannot be touched
cannot be reached, then…
then… what?

…the rose did not prepare me for such wanderings,
nor did the nightingale…

If I am to hold firmly
to the belief that love is the great reducer of ego
that calls us to
humility…

…does this truth not render the body a sad husk
unfit for far-off whisperings?
Must it now be duly cast away?

If it must be, then let it be so - but if it must be so, then let
my unsheathed heart be a new species of light that rises in the eyes of
the unsuspecting beloved.

Not pure incandescence -
no, not blinding as the accretion disk
(i choose to keep
no gravity for my self)

Rather,
Let it be found in the soft moonlight
that just barely graces the shimmering face of Endymion.
Let it be seen in diffuse silver stars reflected on the shores of night.
Let the ghosting fireflies speak for me in silences of deepening dark.

Let the fingertips of the beloved
play in salt-waters and caress the algae to glow luciferin.
Let it be in all those transitory moments of reflection
where the light offers itself in secret.

There is no grief more gentle than this in the radiant eye:
so many rising stars; so many fallen,
so many falling still.

The heart of the beloved is drinking them like rain.