Had Done 2

         The last mark I had done before the break
         was on a page sent by a trusted friend
         who'd left to check with him she knew might know
         the pattern to my journey down a path
         I'd trudged along in through a tangled weave
         that bygone troubadours had given song
         in cycles that still echo life and love
         long into nights untouched by any moon
         as though I'd known he'd be true to his word.
         In her own hand! I'd circled every word
         as if to diagram each crack, to break
         it open, make it split. I'd drawn a moon
         one empty place to represent a friend
         then sketched the sun behind to be a love
         eclipsed in time to teach us what we know
         to be the meaning of our dance and song.
         And here, those final marks I'd made: my path
         from there on, threads I'd meant my mind to weave.
         How strange, the webs that wayward winds can weave!
         The one she'd sought out hadn't heard a word
         of anything I'd mapped to be my path,
         yet seemed to see it. What a lucky break!
         Had he himself been singing the same song
         as I'd been singing to our goddess moon?
         How else could he have seen? How would he know
         to cross beyond the edge? And why'd my friend
         believe him, trust him, share with him my love?
         "Look to the parity of life and love,"
         she wrote me he'd advised. "See how they weave
         like odd and even, each the other's friend
         and lover, each the other's inner word
         and faith. Count steps out two by two, then know
         the primes that lead up through a higher path."
         He'd worked out how odd circles of his moon
         crossed her sun's even compass, each to break
         into the other, round and round in song.
         The magic's in the moments of the song;
         what makes it work's the edges to its love.
         Too easy, right? Don't rules get made to break?
         OK, but those unbroken through this weave
         are certain as the changes of our moon,
         as trusted as the trust of a true friend
         and ancient as the law that guides my path.
         Before I left, I'd written down the word
         I'd known would now recall the spell I know.
         Tradition says keep secret what we know
         so ancient minstrels hid their craft in song
         to bind each step to will, each breath to word,
         to cast all light to law, our life to love.
         He's right about the parity. The path
         takes turns at unity stretched through the break
         between the lines. Ah, beautiful, dear friend!
         You wish to dance along next time I weave
         this song of mine? Let's find a good new moon.
         We'd reached the final quarter of my moon
         that year before the break. From what I know
         this side of it, I wouldn't want to weave
         it any differently. I know my song,
         I know my family, I know my friend,
         I know my calling, and I know my word.
         No seizure can eliminate nor break
         nor poison nor turn me against my love.
         Each new moon since, I've been on this same path.
         These lines here can't pretend to trace the path
         my seizures took me through.  Like any moon
         illuminates the darkness we most love,
         so at their best these words see what I know
         when I fall silent, back beyond the break
         of night to morning back to night, that weave
         through parity, that ritual in the word
         we've chosen to begin and end the song,
         that cycle I'd learned from my faithful friend.
         This one page I'd received from my old friend —
         it shows the form I'd follow on my path
         like lyrics to a long forgotten song
         of night blessed by the mystery of its moon.
         As promised me, this page gave me the word
         dividing all my chosen words, the love
         combining all my other words, the weave
         of what I'd always known with what I'll know,
         the last mark I would make before the break.

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short of breath

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