He  knew his star rose before his birth



As if – near the end of my days – I stepped into a stream mid-stream

unable to move forward toward an impervious destiny nor go back

where my lover’s death was my sole absolute


Returning in rainy night mist I stalled at the threshold listening to fizzles of rainwater

tapping fallen amber-tree leaves    content   as if December’s penetrating cold

existed to prove me wrong


As it lightens I sit and wait like the lean tensed form of the pianist crabbed over the keys

intensity fiercely held against liminal divide – not yet not yet – his body jerked back

again   not yet