Just as her song arrives, the bird is flown.
Hope gives way to light.
Battered men dance upon their crutches.
Wise ones lose their sight.
They converse with stones.
Use their fingers and their bones.
Become the verse of butterflies.
Not as if. Or as when. Perhaps. But then.
It begins again. And the never is.
Is the is the is, you call unknown.
Oh, her fingertips, where once were feathers!
Oh, the way the wind is blown!
And leaves not one thing standing!
Save love, and the melody she’s granting!