Waltz
The comet discovers a blue path
over your shoulder,
spinning through outer space
above the wood porch railing.
We are whirling to the harmonies of
"Star of County Down,"
your arm in the midheaven
of my back, holding
burgundy velvet.
A violin is weaving through
the flute,
but your eyes hold me to
a deeper melody.
Around the borders of
my seeing, your hair
curls into a halo of memory.
Maybe it is the full moon
or the thunder clouds gathering
out of season
over the rolling Wisconsin
cow pastures
predicting tomorrow's snow.
As we circle around each other,
the wind swirls over
the red barn
next to the 19th century
school house,
a terrifying beauty
that will blow the walls apart.
If I invite you into my house,
I know you would take the time
to find the trilobites
and the seashell fossils,
to see how the curve of the cello
fits my leg.
I'd watch you fold the prayers
you have almost forgotten
into the saffron wrapped around
the bare feet of the Buddha.
And in your eyes
I might find the blue imprint
of a comet,
a message from a planet
near the Pleiades
etched by a ten-year-old
with a switchblade
into your largest finger,
an almost forgotten memory
of the way back home.
— Diane Frank
