West Wind, X.

Dark is as dark does.

Something with the smallest wings shakes itself
from under a thumb of bark.

The ocean breathes in its silver jacket.

Outside, hanging on the trellis, in the moonlight,
the flowers are opening, each one
as fancy in its unfurl as a difficult thought.

So we cross the dark together.

Outside: the almost liquid beauty of the flowers.

Now the linnets wake.
Now the pearls of their voices are falling
in the morning light.

Did we sleep long? Is it this life still, or
is it the next life, already? Are we gone, then?
Are we there?

How will we ever know?