Saturday, July 30, 2011

22. Mélisande

She reaches out – an arm outstretched –
the mid-day sun igniting her.
A ring belies the fatal bond,
malicious in its innocence.

They played as children play their games:
unwary of the time or place.
But as the fountain sang its charms,
the moment held its memory.

And as the sun was smiling too
she clambers out an inch too far.
Then with a final, fateful throw,
she heralds the dénouement.

But even in this horrid hour
she has no grand remorse to grieve,
no haunting aria erupts
beyond those startled, slender lips –

As if her star-crossed, transient life
is happier than mine, for she –
this Mélisande – grows lovelier,
reborn: each night, each matinée.


One Art, to recognize, must be,
Another Art to Praise.

- Emily Dickinson