For the time being,
and being what it is these days,
the end is in the beginning
and the beginning is in the end.
Life will seem more ordinary now,
and there will still be laundry
and the 8:15 train.
The flight of gulls over the harbor
will not be an omen of the seventh inning.
The peregrines nesting on the Citgo sign
will not compare favorably
with the swallows of Solomon’s fabric,
who nest beneath the eaves
of the Lord’s house.
Babe will be a distant memory,
or a pig,
not some lofty giant
from the newsreels
and the black-n-white stills.
There are still empty spaces
upon the walls of the Gardner,
clean patches of paint
that represent human triumph
over the will of the dead.
Yet are we not the poorer
for that success?
Bill can do the walk of life again,
we all will do the walk of life again,
and find in this great new epiphany
a season of ordinary time,
wherein some magic will flow out of our world…
and perhaps we will miss it,
but from now on the faults belong to us,
not to some vengeful ghost
or some haunting mischevous demon
hard upon the battlements of Fenway.