Ah—what was it?
Some window,
Or a door
Down some dark hallway, opened
Somewhere—somewhere cold, dry, and dusty.
My place of stay. I could feel a fresh draft,
If only for a moment,
And glimpsed a momentary flash
—Or was it a breath?—of sunlight.
A fragrant scent of roses, too.
I’ve forgotten which window now,
And the image is fading like a dream
That dissolves in the wash of waking.
—Or is it falling back to sleep?
Whatever it was, it was familiar,
Like a blissful childhood memory confused,
And blurred,
And conflated with these fading dreams just seen.
Damn me if I should not seek this out,
And damned I shall be if I don’t.
It was something, I’m sure.
An epiphany of remembrance,
There—there on the tip of my soul’s tongue.
It’s a taste,
Again, so familiar,
Yet foreign:
A warm kiss on this calloused heart,
A tender touch on this sickened soul,
A fanning faint—just barely—of embers
Burning beneath this mired mind
And commiserating conscience,
So full of weeds where lilies once grew.
And did I hear birdsong?
Perhaps the hummingbird with her gentle wing-hum
With seeds of faith upon her beak?
Let the seeds fall and grow here
Within this derelict garden.
Timshel: ornithophily.