a poem, revised...

How Fortunate the Fall



It seems a memory, not fit to amuse
us when we so desire to slip away
into a dream of all the good we may
or may not dare. For we yet hate to lose,
shambling and resentful of the news
that loss is woven into every play
we make. The sun yet burns us as we weigh
the odds that love’s an everlasting ruse.
So like a dream, this memory undone.
The hour's not as early as we thought,
yet we bear the remnant of our love
for a garden City lost, then won -
a fugitive law presses from above
that all as one might be more dearly bought.

We’re yet waiting in a silent hour,
penned down with our brand of vanity
into a little space, where we can see
only a hint of joy beyond the power
of easeful death. The promise of the flower
is enough for now. We can only be
and hope God never posts a probate fee,
for he always makes a strong man cower.
Listen to the echo now of every fall
of every one alive, the weal and woe
of time that is itself the final call
to flee our place of self-made famine, low
enough that God himself learned how to crawl -
it’s his delight to charm us from below.