The Stretch Between Limits

Here’s another attempt to write a poem in response to Quartettsatz in C Minor, D, 703. I tried to think more “lush” this time. I’d love your feedback before I have to read it!!!

A hairstreak butterfly lilts in a certain
slant of sun, and you are ushered
into the inner terrain of the mind —
tremolo of what to eat for breakfast,
longing for love's reparation for your son
and daughter, joy of your partner’s
calloused hands. You reach, you reach
for a depiction of the light.

The sun spangles the dew-soaked grass.
Your fragile feet walk a finer line.
The bitter roast of coffee earths you to the moment.
Tenderness reveals an aging,
pulse of a broader cadence.
You water the purple peonies.
Something in you is quenched. You reach,
you reach for a depiction of the light.

Dream fragments stream you gossamer.
You feel floating threads on your skin,
teasing what's moveable, a sense of yourself
at the opening, sighing cavern, hidden
rivers. Here. Not here. You stand in the flow
with a bowl, remembering the cool,
mineral taste. You reach, you reach
for a depiction of the light.

Spanning is the living kind, the stretch
between limits, where your body begins
and your mind ends, and the beginning
is always beginning, where an extension
beyond what's ordinary let's in the light,
a spontaneous radiance, a benediction
of embodied words. You reach, you reach
for a depiction of the light.