an Ode to Catherine Cipot
It surrounds
like a sudden stillness.
Wistful. A whisper
of sorts.
How I know
what a proper form is,
like a tree, or a stone,
or a house throwing shadows.
It surprises and comforts,
so it must be
an old remembrance,
then—
Perhaps of the beatitudes,
like the hands
that held me safe
and warm.
Where my mother
told me God looks
down up us, and
visits us from.
In the white moonlight,
angels of crystal
dust cold stars,
their lights dimmed,
They ring out softly.
A graceful interlude,
to remind of the color
of your eyes,
And how you
threw
your little arms
around the world.
Stephen Cipot
