Cellar Door Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Before I grow tired and die,
Like a sickly infant before it knows this language,
I want to look up and see the world metamorphosed
Into a single thing, a word spoken in a whisper,
Like the blurred shape of a blue bird lighting
Too fast against the sun to be sure it ever flew—
A word of unrecognizable sound, yet irrefutable meaning—
The finest chorus in a single thing,
A dove of peace sent through my ears
Conceived from a true realm where I am not alone—
A medical stone that has the power to raise the dead,
A healing word— The word of a faithful lover.
A word mothers use to conceive and birth flawless children.
A word when spoken creates perpetual daylight—
A word when echoed resonates fertile planes and singing
Rivers into being—
A word that I could use to whisper upon her lips,
To take back the shadows, the ball of adders growing
Twisted in my heart— A word to cascade into her,
A word that she could recognize me with
And be sure that I was right. Before I grow tired
And sleep….