A Pre-echo from Before
the Time When All the Sons
of God Shouted for Joy
A perfect piece where every chord and note
Is played by perfect hands, you are the whole
Perfection music always wants the throat
To fill, a melody that must unscroll
In air inevitably. Nothing could
Improve it, being so intensely right.
You are the shapeliness and strength of wood
For Stradivarius and organ might.
Imagination could not write a song
Or symphony more beautiful or sure.
The seraphim and cherubim must throng
To hear your breathing and your pulse. As pure
As measures from the dawn of time your form
Lies now beside me, a prophesied storm.