Before And Aftermath

A heavy frost on a clear night,
constellations telling their stories,
moonlight squandering its hold on darkness,
starlight squeaking on its waxy strings,
every fop and sot and harlequin
tucked into their greasy beds,
night unstringing its broken viola,
night breaking its thread, the chain of life
rattling loud enough to shame the dead,
quiescence writing its name a thousand times,
its hands folded with prayer,
solitude an agnostic text
written and read by candlelight —
“Once upon a time, everything hurt . . .”

A mountains shudders, in want of a season.
The rivers trundle. The forest laughs.
Everything is much the same as it was.
Everything is suddenly different.