A single falling note above

this chorus of blossoming: some unseen bird,
calling the echo that returns, so each

joy’s doubled, brings back its twin—
Whatever name you might give it, whatever
undertone it rings, each bright ripple

shades toward deepening. I used to wonder
what it might feel like, pushed closer
toward the front of the line— place

of dubious honor: the one called on
by whatever might demand a reckoning.
My hair not all completely grey, my hems

not fully rent or frayed; my nerves, my hands
not all quite wrung. I know the days we file
away will not return; this light that pulses

like music in a cage, go under the velvet hood.
The silver bar inside will swing as gently
even then: its occupant, slight of muscle,

heart large as a sea, will dream of trinkets
thrown into the depths. O, nothing’s ever lost,
only unseen, those times the light goes out.

—Luisa A. Igloria
04 28 2012

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch and Cold mountain (44, 45, 46, 47).