Cloud Cover
Somewhere in the nowhere of cloud outside this fog-pearled window
The sun turns aside from our manifold gaze
And a sort of creeping ennui seeps into the city
Enshrouding my fellow souls as they negotiate their private tightropes
Between work and home.
Time stopped this past night, saving time—and teetered—so
That this particular time of day has gone preternaturally dim,
Prompting lights to blink on here and there
While I sit in my chair by this window within the haloed flush of lamplight
Nursing a cup of dark and dusky tea.
If I were anywhere but in this chair by this window in this mist-mantled room—
If I were on the other side of cloud cover, say,
Where winged throngs enjoy eternal beatitude
And time as we know it is distinguishable only by proximity to our earthly horizon,
Would I feel any differently about where I sit,
And would this cup of black and leafless tea be enough to comfort me?
I sip my tea and listen to the flap and drone outside this window and I wonder:
Will the messenger arrive on foot,
Or will he spin around the corner, pedaling furiously, a bag a-bulge behind,
Or wil l he suddenly flap forth, winged, colossal, and haloed in sun,
From a pillar of fire or dusky cloud?
In what guise will the longed-for one arrive?
What color his eyes? What shade his skin?
Will he arrive barefoot or sandal-shod,
Or will he stride along in boots slimed with mud,
With laces frayed and knotted at the tip
And soles as thick as slabs of bread?
Will he be cloaked, or robed, or garb'd in gold,
Or suited in a bespoke tweed,
Or swaddled merely 'round with linen cloth as white as virgin snow?
Will he be a babe again, or youthful, or ancient as a sage?
Will he be bearded and darkly maned,
Or will he bare a pate as smooth and polished as an upturned cup?
And, when he comes, my Gabriel,
Will he fold his six-fold wings around me,
Touch me on the hair, the head, the hand?
And will he kiss my lips
And breathe his clean and holy breath into my duskiest desire,
Murmuring a sweet annunciation,
Or will he announce himself in a rush of wind
And a blaze of lighting and a thunder-clap—
With a rebuke and recounting:
The deeds;
The words;
And, most of all, the very things and thoughts
Bidden and unbidden
Which pile up like crumbs beside my crumpled napkin.
Finally:
Will he be a he, or a she,
Or something else entirely?
Somewhere in the nowhere of cloud outside this fog-pearled window
The sun turns aside from our manifold gaze
And a sort of creeping ennui seeps into the city
Enshrouding my fellow souls as they negotiate their private tightropes
Between work and home.
Time stopped this past night, saving time—and teetered—so
That this particular time of day has gone preternaturally dim,
Prompting lights to blink on here and there
While I sit in my chair by this window within the haloed flush of lamplight
Nursing a cup of dark and dusky tea.
If I were anywhere but in this chair by this window in this mist-mantled room—
If I were on the other side of cloud cover, say,
Where winged throngs enjoy eternal beatitude
And time as we know it is distinguishable only by proximity to our earthly horizon,
Would I feel any differently about where I sit,
And would this cup of black and leafless tea be enough to comfort me?
I sip my tea and listen to the flap and drone outside this window and I wonder:
Will the messenger arrive on foot,
Or will he spin around the corner, pedaling furiously, a bag a-bulge behind,
Or wil l he suddenly flap forth, winged, colossal, and haloed in sun,
From a pillar of fire or dusky cloud?
In what guise will the longed-for one arrive?
What color his eyes? What shade his skin?
Will he arrive barefoot or sandal-shod,
Or will he stride along in boots slimed with mud,
With laces frayed and knotted at the tip
And soles as thick as slabs of bread?
Will he be cloaked, or robed, or garb'd in gold,
Or suited in a bespoke tweed,
Or swaddled merely 'round with linen cloth as white as virgin snow?
Will he be a babe again, or youthful, or ancient as a sage?
Will he be bearded and darkly maned,
Or will he bare a pate as smooth and polished as an upturned cup?
And, when he comes, my Gabriel,
Will he fold his six-fold wings around me,
Touch me on the hair, the head, the hand?
And will he kiss my lips
And breathe his clean and holy breath into my duskiest desire,
Murmuring a sweet annunciation,
Or will he announce himself in a rush of wind
And a blaze of lighting and a thunder-clap—
With a rebuke and recounting:
The deeds;
The words;
And, most of all, the very things and thoughts
Bidden and unbidden
Which pile up like crumbs beside my crumpled napkin.
Finally:
Will he be a he, or a she,
Or something else entirely?