Were it merely a formula in proportions,
an engineered marvel of the ancient world,
Our days under the oculus would not chase us at dusk
Were it not an inspired invention
for embracing change and the vagaries of the sky,
for illuminating bigness and the suddenness of insight,
We might have… missed something important…
a lifetime… ago, when every sentence was an exclamation!
Our diaries bulged with tales,
now difficult to retrieve, for they are
stored in swollen boxes, at the back of dank attics,
the shortest of chapters in our privileged lives.
We drank wine and romanced each other, remember?
in the evenings, around aqua-lit fountains,
we spoke poetically of the artists’ way,
the traveler’s life, beginnings… then, forward, we rushed,
and never overruled the familiar with destinies not yet defined.
Gazing into the oculus felt like swimming upwards
to pierce an invisible film with our first breaths of air.
And yet, as our lives leapt forward, we rarely faced skyward.
At dusk, we retrace the best of times, conceived but never born.