It must have been a time like this,
in the beginning of evening. Between
naptime & dinner, supper & night-night.
In Mendelssohn (the music of what is).

A circuit of happenings, a plot - a splendor
played out in murmurs, mirthful surf.
Backwater pools; tributaries
trickled over turf. You begged for more.

Like a supple dancer following a tune
her story swims into your heart's delight.
Nine muses, seven days... his tiny chariot
spins faster. Frisbee matches sun and moon.

Then weeks of years... weak years
of broken twine... you counted swine
while waiting. Waiting for the tail-end
of the tale, at last (printemps appears).

Now sunset touches dappled walls
in the lofty room, where time came
to an end. Twelve candles frame
a moody, shaded ricochet - signals

from beach to ball, from all to each -
as if an omnipresent rainbow reigned
muttering warm colors. And remained
(uttering itself just out of reach).

It was in the family from the beginning,
then. (The Negus branch - remember Lucy,
when she'd just begun to skip?) & so will be
- see the young dancer step the ancient ring.

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