Last night in dreams, she lived a thousand years
And was the architect who made a house
That wandered from the mountains to the sea.
And in its rooms the strange and marvelous
Began to stir with songs and images
And words of radiance by those who knew
That every stone and changing face and tree
Was singing forth a name, a fullness—word
Of self that joins with music of the spheres.
And how that potent work of loveliness
Could fall away, she hardly grasped, though knew
The grief aimed arrows at her flesh, her soul.
She kept one room intact and hidden safe,
One jeweled image on the plaster wall,
One melody that curled inside her ear,
One archway onto mountainside and sea,
One spell, one tale that murmured: Everything
That dies—for all must die—will be renewed.
—Marly Youmans
