Thursday, December 26

NEARING

It makes anything seem possible, Christ.
It makes sunlight a finch's tweet,
and it says the bath looks upon the bay.
It harbors a child, who so calmly
asks for the angel of letting,
in the night before your voice was born.
And then in the morning your voice
is a river, and your face is a river,
and there's nowhere to turn.
I look at your sunlight, all day long.
I saith at your ghost, and am surprised.
                          Take, given. Your face.

I don't know what makes me this.
I don't know why I thought of my brother's voice,
miles and miles of it. And I turned
from the past because I had none.
Dear reader, whoever you are, remember,
among all, remember. And know
you are with me, in the lamp
of our love, in the likeness of rain.
As, as nothing but us, as is.
You turn from the leaves and find
the leaves there, and the blood light asks
for a different name. Take mine, 
take mine.

(Michael Burkard, 
1947-2024)