“The heart of the wise is in the house of mourning, but the heart of fools is in the house of mirth.”
Ecclesiastes
Who’s to say the cardinal doesn’t know
as spring melts into summer, summer fall,
her days might end before this winter’s snow?
If she did, how could she let arias flow—
pretend she was immune to each passing squall?
Who’s to say the cardinal doesn’t know
as cedars snap, their limbs plummet below
and breezes crescendo into caterwauls—
her days might end before this winter’s snow?
Even when hope communes with shadow
her serenades lift the descending pall.
Who’s to say the cardinal doesn’t know?
Perhaps aware that death lies near does bestow
a gift to her. A calla lily’s wake up call.
Her days might end before this winter’s snow,
yet she greets each morning from her bough
enthused by light’s ever spreading sprawl.
Perhaps the cardinal does indeed know
her days might end before this winter’s snow.
Mary Keating
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