By Roy Doughty
At some point, we knew, given the growing splendors
Experienced by the eye â€” the nights when the flowering
Moon kissed the fog white as it poured its
Ephemeral beauties over the mountain, the days
When the expanses of sunlight crested on waters
Comprised of fluidic jewels â€” we knew, that all these sights
Must surely give way to an inner intimacy,
The grandmother who loved us being deified
From beyond the opacity of death, and appearing sweetly
In our childâ€™s heart, the connection long hoped-for,
Being realized again with the most touching solicitude.
Henceforth, we would feel that no miracle could elude us,
That health and love and plenty and fulfillment
Could be enjoyed for the asking.
We knew that the moon would continue with her atmospheric
Ecstasies, that the sun, galactic, friendly,
Would keep making of day a grand ocean of dazzling lights,
But her voice, the inner mirror, would out-splendor them all.
She would sing us into greatness with her love,
As if the simple sweetness of her song
Were the grandest achievement under heaven.