Whit Sunday Morning. (New Longer Version).

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 hide ten Nightingales in my coat
I would smuggle them into your curtained ward
Then let them loose to fly above your bed,
Cascading music deep into your night.

If such intensity cannot waken you
I will invite the thieves to wreck our house,
Steal all the silver, burn our precious books,
Bury your letters deeper than plummet sounded.

It seems the dawn, so vibrant this spring morning,
Was banished from your ward by doctors orders,
But then my love, our dreams, so often shared,
Have housed both Ariel and Caliban.

But rest assured, the front door remains open,
Sunlight, the Paraclete made manifest,
Breaks through all locks, fills our house with brightness,
To bid you welcome.

I will drop this poem down upon your pillow.
Perhaps my words will filter through your darkness.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
May 22nd. - July 3rd. 2017.

This is the completed version of the poem first blogged on May 22nd. this year. I was too upset then to fully complete the poem because of Ivy being in a coma. She still floats in and out of consciousness, but is slowly improving.