Monday, March 23, 2015

Cadence

Requiescat in pace, Henning Garner Christensen 

Through the glass you covet the evening light,
oblique against the valley wall,
willing it to live forever
while you watch the days of film
slip away one by one before your eyes.

In the spruce outside the third-floor window,
a resident black squirrel endures the strutting local magpies,
knowing that come sundown, even cleverness
will not spare them the indignity of silence,
knowing that they soon must fly away.

As human as a cadence marching home,
you too must fly away,
those final notes defying gravity,
the treasured memory of your ephemeral life
etched into our hearts  
no more replacing its tangible, majestic beauty 
than the grooves on a wax cylinder
turning on a phonograph spindle in an empty room
replace an aria.