What becomes of a fragile prelude that
Sounds in the distance along lunate
Arcs of scented fervor, like the the lavender
Janus flower I plucked from the terrace of vain manifestos?
What becomes of the ravishing virtuoso maiden across the sea
Who channeled my affections in every note and stroke, where
No distance proved too great for passions duly united in
Art and song?
Of the long-lost father who never forgot my smile,
Of the community of gentle spirits who welcomed
My prodigal soul back home with tea and festive hearts?
Of the voice I re-discovered during a chance excursion
Into Chagallian dreamscapes, Muchian moonlit nights,
Van-Ghoian pastures, Monetian sunrises along the creek
Of delicate remembrances?
What becomes of the consecration of words that
Flow from my hand into receptive worlds, where
Sentiments poured in earnest beautify and heal,
Illuminate and dissolve, reflect and portend?
What becomes of this leap into the depths of uncertain
Events, where shadows of days past are distilled into
Tiny little blueprints of full-blooded resolution?
Of action without reservation? Of change effected by
Mint-flavored frissons of existential clarity?
What will become of this prelude – and this flower—
As I toss them into this pond of expectations,
And the rings begin to flourish?