When she plays piano
down the hall,
often she closes the door
so I can’t hear
or be distracted.
Tonight, though,
the door is wide open
as she caresses keys,
improv,
a Church hymn
about space and time
travel.
Each note
takes space
and hangs in the hallway
timeless,
for an eternity,
and I feel myself,
with her,
wrapped in the notes
like a robe
we can share.
As she crosses hands
and moves fingers,
does she know
how that music
(and knowing the words)
fills my head,
my heart,
my soul,
with visions of we,
us,
being there,
in eternal mansions?
Does she feel
that she wants to be
enfolded
with me
for time
and all eternity?
Dear God:
Please let it be so,
that when we are old
and come to dust,
she and I can still hold hands
and sing notes
about
No end
to beauty;
No end
to Love;
No beginning
nor end;
No death above.
Please let us
be so joined
as we hie toward
Your mansion
somewhere good,
in Kolob’s neighborhood.
