Today I want to make an altar
from the beauty of this day
and offer it to her–
the one without a mask,
the one whose eyes are peonies,
the one who opens hearts like wings.
On this altar she’ll discover the
sliver of a new-born moon,
a violin that dreams of Barcelona,
three tulips floating in a bowl of tears,
a curl of smoke, one candle,
but no flame, a book of hymns
to Aphrodite and two towers on a hill
at dusk, above the sea.
She’ll find a mask made from hours
splintered from the clock,
a mask behind a mask,
of amber-colored leaves,
a brow, transparent as the sky,
a throat of feathers painted blue,
a hidden, restless heart that
dreams of seas and winds.
Today I make an altar
from the beauty of this day
and give it to the flower-eyed one,
the one who needs no masks,
as if it were a nest of clouds
in which two red birds sing.
© 2004 J.M. Keating