Secret Musings

          "We dance round in a ring and suppose,
          But the Secret sits in the middle and knows."
                                        -- Robert Frost

Stifled inside a melting house,
an icy woman
with a cryptic fright of ruins and antiques,
I rest my cane in bewildered cracks
to think, in consolation, of wrecked things
that become pieces of art
-- The Sphinx, Venus de Milo,
a shattered childhood, a broken vow--
when secret musings break through,
as beams of light stealing into a dungeon,
and I dream a vision, without vision,
a drink of water from the fountain of youth.

Suddenly in a fluorescent flush,
I’m young again, singing,
ringing like a wineglass,
red-flared, impetuous,
showy, loud, intense,
using lockjaw jargon, pompous slang,
rummaging, pillaging through
temporary tents in camps,
temporary games for flicking paper balls,
temporary hearts playing all the razzmatazz;
I rediscover, at every instant,
every secret hiding in little things,
giving myself permission
to attempt a redemption
for previous propriety,
my self-imposed drought.

Thus, when darkness coagulates,
smiles of solace dribble down my chin,
and in my rocking chair
behind the window-shade
I sit thinking,
“Secret musings are superior things
akin to left-over fortune cookies
gripped by years or fears.”