the first sound…and the last

Myth
You cant keep hangin’ on
To all that’s dead and gone
Oh, let the ashes fly

Help me to make it
Help me to make it
.

.
.
.
.
the first sound…and the last
.
.
.
in the quiet before sunrise…
.
before this relentless world awakes…
.
at the window silhouette of my
.
alone listening…
.
.
i hear the first of morning’s call,
.
faint from the dense of sheltering evergreens…
.
alighting from February’s greyed and leafless branches…
.
in slow breaths past your sleeping lips…
.
.
i can hear our shared living mystery recital
.
whispered deep within your down pillowed dreams,
.
the serendipitous and storied soliloquy of
.
our improbable union of years.
.
.
in destiny devoted season after season…
.
that even in this cruelest of another Winter cold,
.
we can still scorch
.
in the white of our own flame.
.
.
and still… this fool romantic’s heart
.
could believe only Love beckons reconciliation,
.
but a slow and greying wisdom wonders
.
‘is it our friendship we can’t live without?’
.
.
.
.
and outside our window long past sundown…
.
when the world has turned away…
.
i hear the life mating cardinals, like us
.
a fated pair
.
.
019
.
.
calling each other home to close another day.
.
we are as the Universe demands, and how
.
i’m forever grateful it’s your voice i hear.
.
.
the first sound…
.
.
and the last.
.
.
.
.
drawing approx. 8″ x 8″ on vellum paper
pencil, watercolor pencil, white and black marker,
acrylic paint and sourced from various Google pics
click to enlarge