That Which Remains

Loves fire, burning so low
it could scarce be noticed in the dark,
and invisible to the bright of day;
Should all I value
be stripped away,
the treasure that glows,
when my heart dwells on her,
remains.

She

Before I knew her name
or ever heard that voice,
so soft as shapeless flame,
my love took limb,
for love must be flesh
or else could nothing be.

And She,
possessed of a sweetness
that is both promise
to the brave,
and a message
from radiant climes
is both answer to prayer
and destiny before me.

The Butterfly

How quickly
vanity will undo a man
sitting in an outpatient ward,
his, no minor ills
yet feeling worse
for the treatment
than its need.

Aware the ticking of the clock,
exchange of amiable words -
they never wear solid colors
in oncology,
always gaier prints
and smiles set
against hopeful eyes.

Apprehensions and myths
must be unravelled,
even thoughts deciphered,
delusions dislodged;
so many stories of survivors,
and remembrances of those gone.

The butterfly
has no consciousness of fear,
and sparrows dart without tear.
To man alone,
God's ultimate created,
is the grimness of the grave known.
Yet, there remains on my lips
a boatload of gold,
while I am found, too,
in the shadow of my tears.