I see, as I fall (and falling from a great height)
undeterred, a stream cutting an azure course,
white and brave and blinding bright, in distant
communion with a high and inexorable star.
Light falls even a man like I, through tundra
staid and barren — it brought this stream its shores —
and that same light falling, floating freely, cold and
wearing a shimmering, ephemeral cloak of snow,
of the sheer tumult to which it rages courageous on.
And at the same, my sorrow, sensate, sends me on
and alters flight: white-winged pendulum
into the bright abyss, the mourning mist gliding
both in symmetry toward a glistening plunge.
We fall, we see a thunderous stream, the star
draws forth our energy and all will be cast free
and falling: an immanent, fulgurant, furious dream.
But this light (this resurgent light) does not disappear,
and will resurface, will seek out the subterranean tunnels
the groundswells and springs, the hermetic jets of steam
found, will tell, will sing of life; unerringly resurgent life.
It may be cold and dark and bedeviled, but it is not lost.