The falling autumn leaves would stall
Above the lawn, their futile red
A stationary fire;
The dog erupting from the pond would spread
In hanging glints its diamanté shawl
Of shaken spray midair;
The blue arc of the wave would climb no higher,
A gauze of glare
And water that would neither break nor sprawl.

And as that woman turned her head,
The streaming ripples of her hair
A painted banderole
Impastoed on the wind, she’d be aware
At once of all the living and the dead
And those whose lives would come
Embodied round her, bodying the whole
Continuum
Of all they had imagined and had said.

And every thought would undergo
This rallentando, every word
Would grind down to a halt
Midsyllable, interminably heard,
But charged with full intention even so
And purity of tone
Free from distortion and for none to fault
None to condone,
A knowledge only for the blessed to know.