The sweep of an eye across quick years gathers up –
If it sees the gentle lined face of an old friend –
Whole days, both joyful and awash with a grief that scoured
With the newness of its sources.
As though drawing from a well,
Upon every bend of light
And sharp thrusting shadow
These sweeping eyes
(with strength enough
that the Fantastic
might indeed surface from the wide and deep
hidden pools of the Real)
A lonely lovely beam of something
More than light,
Which guards against something
Worse than shadow.
And so reunion of remembering companions
Carries the prize of both Then and Now.