And it is the restless, constant motion of you, the city,
Your cars and buses,
Construction and heavy machinery,
Bakers’ ovens and chefs’ knives.

The sense of urgency
or exhaustion
or both.

The subway cars coming and going,
Making their mournful rising minor third on the rails,
Or the other tune, the rising minor seventh and then another major seventh,
Singing as they pull away, there’s a place…
and never finishing the phrase but
letting it collapse into a joyful cluster of dissonance.

For we are already here.
It is this place for us!
And this place has a music all its own,
In every atom,
In every soul,
In every brick,
In every chip of peeling paint or scored plaster,
In its ironworks old and new,
In its ghosts and its living beings,

And they are all us.

“Do good works,” I cried.
“Do good works!” You called in return.

“And above all, love one another,” I cried.
“Love one another!” you called.

“Love one another,” I whispered, hand to my heart.

I awoke, and cried tears of profound joy.

I would tell you I love you a thousand small ways,
A soft, gentle smile, a lingering glance,
A sudden caught breath on sensing your gaze,
The pulse at my throat now betraying heart’s dance.

A touch on your cheek, a breath in your ear,
Carrying promises fiery and sweet,
Or gaze downcast when passing you near,
A frisson of excitement when eyes at last meet.

Kindling the night-hearth and sharing its fire,
Passion for passion, desire for desire,
Or tender meets tender, a long-burning flame,
Caress for caress as love whispers your name.

A kiss, a caress, a glance, a long look,
A love open wide, no resistance it brook,
A sigh, a shiver, a sweet evening song,
Safekeeping your heart throughout all the years long.

O were you mine!

Author’s note: This poem was inspired by the birth of a beautiful baby girl named Luna, the daughter of dear friends, in 2009. You can hear an audio sample of the song setting here (http://www.rebekkahhilgraves.com/2009/05/opera/)

O God, the mystical Weaver,
Your fabric far richer than gold,
Forgive this importunate fever;
I even one thread cannot hold.

O God, the celestial Painter,
Whose palette no eye can behold,
Forgive me: my colors are fainter
Than shadow when evening enfold.

O God, the heav’nly Composer,
Your music no less than the skies,
Forgive me my poor sound, no closer
Than silence entombed where it lies.

O God, the Creator of Song,
That sounds in celestial hall,
Forgive me this helping along,
I even one note cannot call.

Thou story, thou fabric, thou canvas, thou tune,
Thou brighter than sun, more mysterious than moon;
Thou epic, thou color, thou music sublime,
I kneel at the feet of the Artist Divine.

My latest cycle of poems, Love the Haven of Peace, is now available in the Kindle format at http://www.amazon.com/dp/B002C742H6

Learning to love again, and love well, is one of the greatest challenges the human spirit endures. This cycle of poems came out of one of those times.

This will also eventually become a song cycle for soprano, violin and piano.