A Moveable Garden

Recovering What's Lost

I wake up, another day, 
already mourning the absence of night, 
a missing immortality that lingers  
in memory like a restless ghost. 

For minutes or heavy hours, I try to recover 
what’s lost to the light, what’s fled and 
fleeing through saving shadows along a fragile passage, 
far beyond these definite rooms, 
beyond my skyward arms reaching like foundlings 
into the agreeable ether
for the sure wisp of that other traceless life. 

Nothing lasts and I know that, 
though I suspect the story itself is endless,
the path threaded through stars and dust like 
the wobbling true tug of pollen and bee, 
atomic longing for these latent worlds that 
shine darkly, white scented flowers 
haunting an abandoned garden, just there, 
bending around the near corner, 
faint and palpable, 
if only I’d wake. 
If only I’d sleep. 

I leave it to the moon’s 
ice cold keeping, 
this disappearing,
this grief. 

© M Wms 2022