she had sung aloud, when’st alone quite unabashed she was
only the doors have opened and the room turns amber
where’st the sun has peaked its head around the corner
alas there is the stopping of the hands
alack there is the stopping of time
alas there is the stopping of forward’d fate
alack there is the how’st and the why’st of stopping
alas there is the flooded eyes and softened lips
alack there is the recollections of complex tapestry
alas there is the memory of fall’d robes and Turkish towels
alack there is the opening up and there is trust
(And so this is Christmas, and What Have We Done?)
and there are their quietudes and their poetry and their wonder
there is this year, fate, deed, word, thought, destiny
“Every time you say it (or read it) you make another copy
In your brain”
– touch like this, hold like that –
once loved, and awakened, there is no sleep
Gustave Klimt knows and he knows and she knows
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mary june brown 