Whit Sunday.

I left the door open by mistake.
No thieves came.
No trespasser entered.
But the whole house was filled
With an unexpected light,
And birdsong thrilled the air.

I was waiting for the telephone to ring.
Good news spoken down the line
Could not out shine this singular moment,
Could not have similar power.

Words introduce complexities,
Replace a hug with too much banter.
The sunlight dancing down my hall
Out dazzles the tenderest kiss.

But I must think of you, my love,
Unconscious in the hospital.
The oxygen mask clamped over your face.
The sun locked out of sight.

If I could hold ten Nightingales in my palm
I would bring them to sing at your window.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
May 22nd. 2017.
See June 12th. 2020, The Open Door.