Ferryman

Quiet now on this side of it.
You knew, of course, that this would be so,
that all noises would cease; you’d be left here
in a cocoon of sorts, a shell.

Quiet now on this side.
Inside we find you, of course;
curled up, small for once; not as large
as you once thought you’d be.

Quiet now on this side.
Your visions and fantasies did not come with you;
we sit and stare a while hoping for just one
but hope has no wings and is unfledged.

Quiet now on this side.
All your songs, muted now, are just snatches of recall.
Marry one verse to another’s bridge to a chorus
from yet another; none of it makes much sense to us.

Quiet now on this side.
We turn back to living. You might be fabulous
some day, but whoever has time to await you
has to leave with us.

Quiet now on this side.
We don’t have time to wait any longer.
Write if you get work, if you find yourself moving
at all, though we promise nothing.

Then — comes slap of water on an ancient boat;
comes antiqued voice of an unexpected ferryman;
comes muted sound of his pole sliding you along;
come voices, perhaps singing, on a nearing shore.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T