Wisps, tendrils, white-soft, drifting thoughts
hover lightly--not touching
the pan pipes he played, the pomegranate in a bowl--floating
past the unspilled juices, past music no longer played
nor attended to. Holding a dream half-remembered
not yet forgotten, not quite dismissed
by morning.

Through the window's glass, she anticipates mourning
its loss to the sun's parching promise;
the threat brings a Lethean stillness
to the dark notes, to the fruit's
dark skin. Silence almost sits
between day's knowledge and night's harmony,
holding a thrumming balance between
logic and desire.

A sharp shaft of light knifes
the uncut pomegranate through the glass bowl--
shattering mystery and music.

Theresa Thompson, 5/10/2007