What becomes of a fragile prelude that Sounds in the distance along lunate Arcs of scented fervor, like the the lavender Janus flower I plucked from the terrace of vain manifestos?
What becomes of the ravishing virtuoso maiden across the sea Who channeled my affections in every note and stroke, where No distance proved too great for passions duly united in Art and song?
Of the long-lost father who never forgot my smile, Of the community of gentle spirits who welcomed My prodigal soul back home with tea and festive hearts?
Of the voice I re-discovered during a chance excursion Into Chagallian dreamscapes, Muchian moonlit nights, Van-Ghoian pastures, Monetian sunrises along the creek Of delicate remembrances?
What becomes of the consecration of words that Flow from my hand into receptive worlds, where Sentiments poured in earnest beautify and heal, Illuminate and dissolve, reflect and portend?
What becomes of this leap into the depths of uncertain Events, where shadows of days past are distilled into Tiny little blueprints of full-blooded resolution? Of action without reservation? Of change effected by Mint-flavored frissons of existential clarity?
What will become of this prelude – and this flower— As I toss them into this pond of expectations, And the rings begin to flourish?
Art: “Janus” Jane Tripp