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The Wisdom of Certainty

In the ruin
where the doves mourn
where they gather grey around
the broken egg, circling and
murmuring. No hands to lift it,
no words but those of a tentative wing.
It starts there
where the cauldron goes cold on the fire
where the fire beneath expires
to leave us no heat --
In that space
begins the dream that no one
else can enter
that no one can produce,
you, alone, are present.
We make the vocabulary of dying
and each word shines in that night.

THE NEW MESSIAH

He might work at AOL, for all we know
or maybe Giant Foods.
An ordinary guy; It's said He'll
raise the Dead,
and grateful they'll be,
God knows, they've waited long enough.
What will we do with them
once they're here?
Testaments say not to fear. I won't.
I wonder why we couldn't appreciate
the last Messiah more, yet
I'm all for equal opportunity
and I think there's enough good work to go around.
Did you think the world was filled with emptiness?
Oh no the Dead went no where at all.
They're right here waiting,
phosphorescent, leaning in
listening, impatient as sin,
footsteps we can barely hear but coming near.
Wind blows over them. Can you imagine the Dead
singing of their pain when they know there's a chance
to rise again? It shifts one's view, yet
what the Messiah will mostly change is
our mourning for all those gone,
the grief about the past, the loss, how they loved us,
all that song.

© All Copyright, Grace Cavalieri.
All Rights Reserved. Printed By Permission.