A miracle coming down in summer, or the latter days of spring,
Bringing with it a cause for disbelief,
A reason to doubt the procedural seasons,
What we’ve been told of stasis and growth.
It’s a thing that sometimes find us in a dream;
The hand turned towards what is usual,
The heart perched for the expected,
Then suddenly the confetti of some unreal light
Pouring in through the window,
Like a gigantic matchstick
Filleting up the dark.
It is not that for which we have waited,
The secret heartache of every lovely night,
But something else entirely:
A movement of music starting up from nowhere.
A piece of our old selves coming back.
Some blue otherness
Racing towards our lives.