A Little Stone
Elizabeth KirschnerI am a promise made a thousand years ago.
See how the Great One has kept his word
without saying a thing? Even the mute birds celebrate
by holding a grape in their claws for the world to behold.
Grape of the sweet wine and murmuring lovers.
Donít touch their shoulders. Donít tell them
itís long since midnight and all the bells
have been bedded in graves.
Let the lovers touch. Let their bodies be a bridge
arched over ceaseless dark ages. Soon,
the tremolos of sorrow will warn them about
the sharp edge of time when the miracles will stop.
If I am a promise made a thousand years ago,
then you are a promise made a millennium ago.
It goes without saying our ripening is slow.
Why do we love to bury ourselves in the leaves of grief?
Weíre one step away from something gorgeousó
a little stone ripped out of the side of time, all flecked,
all glittering, a little something to look at in persuasive,
pervasive darkness while we sing a dream song
that soaks into a vast oasis of love.