The Skull and The Rose
(A meditation on death and transfiguration)
Windows go dark
in late November afternoons
memory makes them mirrors
crowded with reflections
of the dead:
A skull appears--
grim remains
of a music master
whose last notes
of a final score
took sudden flight
beyond the grave.
See a grand ball
in a pale silver light
dancers waltzing
in a slow spin
holding on to
yesterdays
in each other’s arms.
They flicker and fade out.
Armies gather
in a flash of August lightning
marching to a music
that has lost its soul
in long rows
of toneless cacophony.
Out of a dark maw
open mouth
of a dying poet
turned warrior
comes a silent cry
for verses lost
in a ruptured throat.
Dark windows
made into mirrors
the open mouth
of a dead poet
fills with blood
a reflection
that fills the looking glass
with a rosy rondure.
A poet is a prophet
with a flower in his mouth
a warrior turned poet
solemnly walks
through the ruins
and remains
of a great war
holding a rose
that absorbs blood
until it is a deep red.
In the window
become a looking glass
the skull sanguinely
glows
its petals circle round
a living center
still point of a
fertile void
whose bloom
sets free
a fragrance
of transfiguration
and return.
