D An Unfinished Praise for Ella

An Unfinished Praise for Ella

Something stately is required. Yes, the highflown
style, appropriate to trumpets blown
across a medieval square; of bells
pealing into contrapuntal music. Something that tells
of days stretched to years. Such words
might once have been possible, pushing towards
a steady-state of courtship, marriage and a rich old age.

(The winds push past my window as I forage
for the phrase that gives a qualified assent).

Not impossible. That's not what I meant:
that the times are out of joint; that nothing's
what was. No. There will be soothings.
Sentences to place you and the day at one.
You will be what you are and become
in time. It is a custom of the old
to see the future in the past, to miss the bold
new shapes and patterns that'll enter you
as you grow into them. The ceremonies due
change rather than decay, while delicate
low hums and whisperings elaborate
themselves into your ways of speech.