Jon Thompson

Lavender Mist


Not the frequency of things, but their duration--
Everything a convergence, a working towards and a working out
Things repeat themselves again and again
But they’re different, as the light is different from day to day,
                                                                                  brighter, more brilliant
More declarative, urgent, rarer
                                                  enlivening the least of things
the unasked-for second chance--
the stillness of the world, singular gift--
At other times, it is Sunday-somber,
dimly sacramental,
                  whistled through with pain, fading
soft and mournful
                                                                    --silent dirge--

The thin black strokes were men
Striding through
                       a city of cross purposes.
Each moving toward a different future
                                                        making and moving away from
The hubbub of motion and energy and light they’re trying to leave behind.
Although you have to imagine it,
a fine lavender mist  is falling everywhere