Dorado Lg Poem by For Matilde

Every symbol, ritual
murmurs something
that comes from
the joy we bury
instinctively - to survive
at least
securely, others
who exist, a skin stretched
to prevent loss and sadness
entering, follows us, room to room
but when night comes
I hear the sounds
of your soft feet descending
into jewelled crypts
in which to me
you address what
you have saved, kept sacred
of yourself, miraculously
the philosopher and
the corpse together
in autumn's exquisite hour

We refuse mourning
we put aside anger
and return over
and over to the river
and Dorado