To Mrs. Stevens

(on the death of May Sarton)

Reaching between black and white lines

I grasp the remnant of a hymn;

subtle harmonies strung

between measures of life’s lapses.

Ears ring with the effort

of trapping ethereal tones,

both remembrance and reality.

And the song is still being sung,

however distantly.

Its melody as alluring now

as the day I first dipped my

hand into your sea

and felt the rhythm of your love

for this fallen race —

only now,

the mermaids sing for me.