Rebirth

In the dark cradle of the night
when impish dream sprites play
outrageous, outlandish movies
on mind-screens of men, sleeping.

And a pearly moon hangs there, coy
and serene, allowing herself
to be unclothed and reclothed
by merry, mercurial clouds.

And the day is a germ of a seed
in the womb of the horizon
and is a long way from gestating
into a full-blossomed dawn.

Into my heart, open, unguarded,
you slip in, silent, unbidden.
Would it be pain, that ensuing pang,
or the joy of meeting you anew,

I never could tell. As memories
tumble, tinkling, into that cavern
still raw from the whiplash of parting,
and lit with glowworms of longing.

The music that rises from heartstrings
now troubled into trembling aliveness,
with the searing ecstasy of pain, must
surely awaken the gods from slumber.

But what could they do, those sleeping,
disinclined designers of destiny,
taciturn, tight-lipped, tongue-tied,
who refuse to emerge from mute forms.

As we, unmindful of our power,
flounder through life, with each
stumbling step, seemingly seeking
joy, while fatally courting sorrow.

Until, learn we must, with each
fateful whip-stroke of fate, that
a joyous soul lies waiting, to be
uncovered, owned, embraced.

And so, in the womb of the night,
pain transforms and sprouts wings
and births itself as a splendorous
being, of rapturous, dazzling joy. 

~~~