By Joe Bisicchia
Shall set, and then this sun soon shall rise again as if to breathe. Shall rise in the east
soon to the west, so soon to set. Again and again, infinity simply said. And in all of this,
where shall we be so to see?
Perhaps we thought his piano playing would never end. We had listened to it many sunsets and then the next afternoon into night it would begin again.
Now, as he lifelessly sits here on the porch swing, waiting the long wait for the undertaker to take him away, we work hard our hands before rigor mortis can set in, propping up his stubbled chin. After all, we want his mouth proper for his waiting coffin. Uncle Sal had been a war hero. Pinned with devastating shell shock and subsequent medals that he hid inside his piano. Dying now in his old age after a life of so much song, often so loud and discordant, yet vibrant despite mental illness, his upright inside nearby seems now very far, now very silent. Our hands are feeling for the diminishing warmth of his pearly keys.
Yet, no need to see. Robins. Somewhere out there in the beam. We somehow sense the chord of peace even beyond the birds now softly singing to the sunset. Shall set, and then this sun soon shall rise again. Again and again, infinity simply said. So much song, and vibrant.
She speaks as if from heaven, for that she is. I love you, her mother, and she speaks as if this she knows. She speaks as Sade would sing, her voice resonating through all of me. I am more than veneer, and this she knows. I am more than hollow, and this she knows. I am just her earthen father, so far below heaven, and she sings as if this she welcomes, and this she knows, as much as such a small life instinctively may ever know.
Perhaps her wisdom is warmth beyond the hearth. Perhaps she knows of the sun, and its pull of earth. Perhaps she knows of everyone. Each of us, far more than a chord box. More than mind, or body, or more than any passing of time.
Sun is falling. And darkness comes with all its might. Soon, over the once white horizon,
in this bone chilling cold, as we see crimson before night there is the fading flame before us. Listen as we each play our innate violin, our voices, each God given.
And she is love at our core, this daughter of ours, this child you bore.
Inside, we shall pull down the sun. Shall listen to the friction of all we are within. And this infant sings of all that is life.
Music. She is. God-given.
Maker of the Sun
Let me show my thankfulness for this in my eagerness to persist my walk with You
now and even into the darkness. See it in my stride.
Even though we shall walk through the valley of death, I walk with You by my side,
always in the light.
Joe Bisicchia writes of our shared dynamic. An Honorable Mention recipient for the Fernando Rielo XXXII World Prize for Mystical Poetry, his works have appeared in various publications. His website is www.widewide.world.