They stroll in a field with no bounds
or rein, their traceless steps
in luxuriant grass. There are no harps
or wings, no cauldrons or flames.
Each guest rises equal from a bed
of reeds. One leans back on a tree,
luminous cloak against counterfeit bark.
Another lounges in the perpetual breeze,
arm outstretched, as if trailing his fingers,
adrift at sea. Somewhere behind
they relinquished their pasts.
The boy climbing from bough
to bough couldn’t say from where
he came. Cleansed of will, see how even
your mother appears, weaving a flower
in a young girl’s hair, your father
passing in considerable stride through
the song she hums with no words or name.
(from The Crossing)
JONATHAN FINK 