The delicate ballerina’s twirl mesmerized as it un-wound,
leaving only the ghost of music shimmering, a remnant
in the stillness of memory, stillness of moments pregnant
with possibility, as if another turn could somehow sound
my desolate depths. Into this sacrament, a blazing cardinal
alights on window sill. Messenger offering chance
to heal or mocking spirit calling due the advance
of happiness bestowed upon devotion so faithful
yet now bankrupt: a precipice that demands I choose.
Final pirouette performed, my fingers begin to drum
the closed box. Can a stopped heart beat again for all, for some?
Tap by tap, a new cadence, faint and unsteady, emerges to fuse
wastelands to whispers of resurrection, vows to cover
lingering strains that forbid fellowship among the angelic number.
©2021 Kenneth W. Arthur