The Play - the thing.

In shadowed night and misted moment, a face can draw so near That I can almost see the eyes upon me, and then is when I hear A voice, incredulous and low Marvel, "Love, you've made it so". Amidst the green and gloom, one star I see, and when it shines so quietly, Its meaning - upon a band, and in my heart - As I shepherd in my way - with Bo Peep smile, and staff of Cross - Is never "Part", but whole - and meaning, shrouded thus, Suddenly is clear. Who is a man, but all he wants to be? In all the lives he lives, alway, he finds himself, And puts away a small reminder, like a jar upon a shelf, Within his mind, for living. Fully realized, the words and steps he takes, though ordered true, Are always his, at last, Directing "I", and "eyes" and "thou", and "do", Whereupon the dance of spirits, seeming random, Find the place, in shadow and in sunlight Of a storied stage, making pieces of their lives Fit neatly into themselves. What tales, they find, these solemn sprites, to linger, yet awhile, In lives of working soul-a-days! Are they trite or sorrow-filled, as when a loss in smaller lives Are lived again, in larger ways, with understanding fresh And shared, like warm, huge, pretzels on a windy day, while waiting at a stop? None say "yes" - just know, at once, the pang of still-felt sorrow, Joy, or shock, or moan - The meaning sharp and clear, and to the bone.