The Possible

The Possible

Odilon Redon, Orpheus

The secret, he had said,
was harmony—sun follows night—
but without her, all was shade
and flowers withered.

After, he recalled the thousand days
when shadows called, and the not-Moon
was deep purple, the color of still-mourning,

rust-storms wept
tears of blood, and language was swept away.

Till one day, dawn came,
the air was honey-scented
and filled with song,
and the light—it whispered,
what if beauty simply is?

The Oracle gave me another Orpheus poem. It seems right for this time of year.

22 thoughts on “The Possible

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