Query

Does memory dare let us see
time restract and, fading,
pull us back from its endless song?
Will orhestras return to let life sing?
What symphonies can we ever play
with instruments we, deprived, have never learned?
As the sun’s light, burning off the dawn,
dissolves its haze, can the will to live remain
and reconcile, beyond a night,
our need for life with that sun’s placid rays
so that we, alive, may, voracious, live
in the wide expanse of its timeless gaze?

Kirby Congdon