There is something
That does not twinkle, dwindle or die.
It’s a breathed promise and flicker of fate.
It’s the North Star guiding us home;
The swallow painting summer in our sky.
I think it’s an ancient hymn,
Sang by broken bones,
The sounding of forgotten gods,
Lonely ghosts and empty chairs
And eyes that do not close.
It’s a hymn we hear,
You and I,
To which we sway and sing
In wrinkled clothes and lined skin
With limbs that creak and moan.
We sing the ancient hymn, my love,
And we never dance alone.
When leaves fade to gold and float to the floor
We will not glitter or glow.
We will but lie beneath the tree
And sing of breaking bones.
Our hands will wither and wane,
Our melody will sink with the fallen sun,
The swallows will abandon our sky.
But buried in the pile of leaves,
Our bones will always sing.