The New Earth, Again

I will miss the sound of striking matches and the crackle and cackle of wood 
As fire blots out dark skies
Death, in miniature, as night is, once again 
Defeated by light 

I will miss, too, stepping into pink morning as the bright infuses, like mischievous ink, the night
A promise and a prophecy that, whatever pain lies below, God knows 
Our grief and sorrow, 
And cares for our relief
And knows our grief, and how it grows 
He does not retreat, though we are waiting
And faint beyond belief 

By then, though, having almost fallen
I hope to be rising like a hawk on wings of wind, into colors that never end
Adjusting to those hues, not looking away, never more ashamed

The flames of heaven, they say, are hotter than any fiery flame or fiend of hell
And truth to tell, they’re just the same, seen in different ways, in the same place or places 

Still, there must be the mundane, unburning 
As we come back to here, knowing it well for the first time, the earth renewed
Holy things will reappear that we will, once again, grow accustomed to
Just as we did as children, the wonder of new eyes growing calm as days go on and on 

And yet, all will somehow remain beyond 
Beyond common, never growing old 
The smell of love walking boldly into a room
The scent of tobacco, wafting from a beloved box
The noise of a cello, 
The honking of a flock of geese 
Stirring hearts to pain with sudden beauty
And sudden relief 
Which we will remember—both the beauty and the pain 
Because
The promise is not the end of tears but their merciful wiping away,
And with it, fear

After all, how will we know love without pain?
How can we be comforted but in loneliness
As when someone, into our darkness,
Speaks our name