Entrechat
John Clare Stokes
In the course of what we now measure with time
We shall finally stop the clock keys wind
Freed from the toil of the loosened spring
No little Cuckoo to wake us from the dream.
In the same manner upon the bedside stand
The journal of words long misunderstood
Read at last with eloquence of rhyme so clear
Hearts warmed with even angels hovering near.
Upon the cold floor we shuffle slow
The groan of bones brittle growing
Ordered steps halted now abound
The earthly obstacle no longer found.
Spectacles reached for yet underfoot crushed
Down halls dark by only touch
Made to reach constellations long
Feeling hems of light fully drawn.
Freed from the shroud of spikenard
A Cuckoo choir sings a song once known
Only hummed when alone in showers
Waters running hour upon hours.
Down halls to life the dancers ascend
The crossing rapid in eternal suspend
The first entrechat upon the Milky Way
Never more lamenting the end of day.
East River Mountain
Bluefield, WV
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