a well-washed morning light looks in
through this small, winter grimed window
surprised, perhaps, to see me
standing there, coffee cup in hand,
even before the hiss and fizz of workday tires
leave their narrow impressions
on the street below
the great and mighty oz of sun,
hidden behind his gauze curtain,
is hesitant to reveal himself
and so the world lies grey,
unsure of itself, waiting
on the edge of beauty
for the sign
in the still naked branches of the birch trees,
the wind is like the sea caught there
unhappy, anxious to move on;
a long and ragged remnant of black plastic
has travelled the wind,
and hangs darkly now
in the top branches of a maple,
thrashing like the flag of the demented
and trying to escape
and I, standing there in the drift of time,
feel the antithesis of grey, of desolation.
wrapped in the perfect faith of innocents,
I know that, were I to lift the lid of myself,
butterflies would emerge.
I know that I have enormous dreams
like fabulous creatures made of silk
inside of me; they rise and billow
and my feet hardly touch the ground.
I am filled with happiness like a man
carrying a cake with candles burning;
I am being coloured in from the centre out.
thoughts of you are hymns
rising like white flocks of birds overhead
and the distance between us
becomes mere geography.
the garden that is my soul is transformed:
its growth and leafing is an act of grace
I had forgotten was possible.
once, I thought I knew how scenes and chapters
ended, with their own inevitability:
now, new endings seem possible;
now, as you stand beside me, a thousand miles away,
I take the moment of your loving, folded carefully,
and place it inside of me, waiting
on the edge of eternity
for the sign.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Waiting on the edge of eternity for the sign. Yes the sign is this truly great poem. Melodic, thoughtful and very moving. I especially liked the part about the butterflies.
Thank you, Captain. Much appreciated.