Now Cleo faced the nighttime
she thought the urge a little strange
her pencil and papers
in a stack before her
her thoughts would arrange.
She stared out of the window
thought of her lover sleeping alone
and all of the children
and all of the kisses
and all of their future undone.
And the nighttime drifted by her
and she moved along curled in it
past windows of houses
waiting for morning
searching for a someday
that might be yet.
There must still be room for trying
for this thing that makes life complete,
for the laughter of children
budging doubt into knowing,
she waited for the stars to speak.
But the stars speak only in rainbows,
speak in flickers too quick to record,
but you catch what you can
plan to talk to the man
of the future you can still afford.
Because nothing never springs from something.
Something always something begets.
Be it more be it less
be it good as your guess
be it good as honest effort deserves.
There’s a path out in the forest
forever closed to all but the sure.
You’ll go there tomorrow
if he will go also
and pray the path
your steps will endure.
And the darkness grows a little older,
grows old and round as motherhood.
Old as part seeking wholeness,
the crack in the moment
morning is born,
perhaps the day can be good.
Christ! Perhaps the day can be good.