Despairing, You Call to Me

I have known such nights, when all that holds me to this
Mad sphere is the memory of love. Intimations of
A warmth, a far, far light. Not the fiery blaze, the
Growling, churning storm. Far weaker, yet
It holds, tethered by silver cord. Not even a
Nested hearth-fire, and yet, I cannot quite despair
Adrift in light. That trembling spar cries out
To hold, hold on — for once there was music; flutes played
Indigo night. Once my soul leapt rather than crawled
Over life’s small terrors, flying freely. Fear
Not, beloved, for this too shall pass.

M.A. Mohanraj
April 6, 1995