Skylight

In ancient times, at play’s end, a god
(An actor, that is, arrayed to look like one)
Was lowered by pulleys onto the stage
To clear it of all the mortal clutter,
And free hero or heroine from the web
Of circumstance—those threads with hooks
That spun around them as they struggled to break free.

That scene: A god brought down from heaven
By a machine used for the very first few times
Most certainly inspired awe in eyes
Not yet dulled by the centuries to follow
Of slick technology. A god! A god!

Being the one awake in the room darkness
Of early dawn, I was alone distressed,
Like a prowler feeling helpless at eventually
Being discovered an intruder to your peace.

But with unbidden grace the light, especially
Pale-gold-sepiaed-matutinal poured winely down,
Tapering like a tent, though silken-slender, gown-like.
Your youth, age-tinted thus, seemed a gift
From an Old Master with a light technique
Now impossible to decode. A portrait I treasure.

And the Gordian knot around my heart
Slackened and fell away.