Thursday, January 02, 2014


Alma, the trace of chocolate
on fingers imperfectly sucked:
heart, dear impossible heart,
the wild widening sky
of this gate-month, flying
from bone-standards bending
in the wind of your passage --
Sarah, sore with the rasp
of esposas --
Hart, dear impossible Hart,
this year will bring
fruit from forgotten trees
planted in happier times:
a banquet long preparing
only waited the cry of "uncle!" --
The white flag
will become an altar cloth.
What will be celebrated is not ours to know,
but the ciborium will be inlaid
with sweetnesses you dreamed before the grief.


rbarenblat said...

Beautiful, Dale.

Lucy said...

Oh my, that is beautiful. Thank you Dale.

Tom said...

Tantalisingly beautiful. Of such stuff is poignant mystery made.

Nimble said...

Oh! That was delicious.

Dale said...

Thanks so much all!