Speaking Low Poem by Lynn W. Petty

In Memory of Cynthia Westfal

Across the luncheon table, speaking low,
we spoke objectively about such things
as laughter, sorrow, joy and tears. The flow
of words was philosophical. Full swings
from metaphysical to rational
approaches that would constitute a life
well lived. Her voice was hushed, an interval
of time, as though remembering some strife
within her past, her eyes grew moist and dim.
A chord was struck so deep within her soul
I felt its resonance through every limb.
She slipped outside the physical. She stole
away from here and now. I sat alone
but, not alone. I waited her return.
As if a tranquil, wafting peace had blown
from off the sea toward land, I could discern
upon her lifted face, an ecstasy;
a quiet as a nun who's filled with awe
and ardent adoration. Turning, she
began to speak as though she had to draw
from language unfamiliar to my ear;
as though she spoke another tongue. Her words
were halting as she told me what was near.
'Whatever it may mean, it undergirds
belief, ' she said, 'that there is more of me
than just this body bondage carried hence,
through this sojourn as flesh and blood, you see.
An inexpressible experience.
I rise aloft, I hear such harmony;
a blending of all virtue into sound;
like purity of prayer; a euphony
of freedom and integrity unbound.
How vacuous are words, how to explain
The timbre of her voice was rich and real
combining mystery, passion, love and pain,
like middle tones of cello one would feel
if cellist were to bow on golden strings.
'Perhaps, ' she said, ' it could be preperational,
a revelation of some promising.
A proof that life is not divisional
for those of us who may depart this scene
before our time, while still within our prime.
But, who am I to question the unseen?
I live by faith, a constant uphill climb.
So, dry your eyes and think of me as cured,
for thoughts are things, the strength of which is lost
unless directed with design. Secured
with knowledge, when the threshold has been crossed,
my life was lived with dignity and aim.
No fears have I, when breathing my last breath,
I shall be judged with honor not by shame.'
Her words, a balm of hope and power, death
cannot make still, whose echoing will haunt
the glens of thought, abiding through the hills
of mind, like sounds of nightingales, that taunt
the dusky dark of doubt. They warmed the chills
of foggy reason, questioned intellect.
They cause far reaching arms of memory
to lift across the eye of introspect,
to question: is it all illusory?
For what I thought was truth is now suspect,
and, what was once suspect is now prospect.