Sunday, April 16, 2017

one hundred thousand thousand and one

every moment now is past
and therefore marked and
the names for each are etched
onto melodic strands that
you drop into a jar

one hundred thousand
thousand and one marked
moments that make the jar
a perfect measure

of the virtuous time
and pleasant peace
and tidal epic that you
once shared

the jar a wide-mouthed
ewer of crystal that you
place upon the window sill
of your aggrieved mind

and when you reach into
that blessed chamber
you swirl, with a child's
fingers, the dowry within

because a good man gifts
a daughter a certain trove
of one hundred thousand
thousand and one blessings

that no other can read
or attain or approach
or wash away or believe in
or dispel or ruin

what is yours is the memory
fashioned between the two
of you singly and without
the authority of others

and in a day, any day, most
nearly every day, you will
hear the words singing to you
as echoes in a deep wood

you will reach into your glassy 
globe, your crystal keep,
and swirl the subjects with
a child's devoted fervency

and let a word come to
your hand in a magical
fortuity and pull it out
to give it renewed breath

one of a one hundred
thousand thousand and one
wonders will sing in your palm
once again

as if you were back there
in the moment it was born
and he will be there as if
sitting beside you

and you will feel as
if the time has not fleeted,
has not been spent, has not
rolled on, but rather has hesitated

hovering in a small place
just for you in this conceding
luminescence in which God has 
allowed you to once again bask

before replacing the thing,
the gift, back into that
place in your jar
on the sill of your mind

i knew not the man,
or the name of the far-sighted
sprite that you birthed
together, father and daughter

but that is why it is yours alone,
your one of one hundred thousand
thousand and one time-woven
remnants of life's labors together

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