Mars and the Moon

Mars came last night
to watch the moon robe herself
in Earth’s red wake
and you whispered to me
strange stories of old courts
and a poet pale
in the thin atmosphere,
sat on a mosaic meaning more
than can be seen;
watching a dance like
falling petals from a person
moving in obedience
to that first and greatest law;
growing roses in the old tongue
that match this red shade
and the coming of a holy man,
long foretold,
to speak again of vanity,
of the blasphemy of saying
even one of the sacred names,
and the secret delight
of living still.

Mortality a small price to pay
for this:
to feel the stars move
behind your mouth;
all the silent syllables of space
spared forever,
here,
in the mind of a poet
far from home.

Finally at peace.

TRACE

A Rose for Ecclesiastes