The Marriage of Figaro

If only real life were so vivid, however confusing:
from far-off, lots of dazzle and noise and speed…
Closer in, mouths laugh, shout, kiss — butterfly shapes
collide with passions aflutter, or part with mirrored
doubleness. Constantly, new things are about to happen,
reversals wait in the wings, except when — closer still —
spotlit interludes of pure feeling set forth dilemma,
infolded outcome, like a tarot card.
At the finale,
threads of love and illusion weave a mandala of sound,
with everyone chastened, heartened, eager to go on.
But such hard work! It must be the music that keeps
them cheerful: even Where are the Happy Times?
buoyed my spirit for weeks, an echo deep in the mind.
Then, too, they have the consolation of dignity:
the Count gets, not a custard pie, but the Countess,
Figaro's doubts are healed by Susannah's faith,
with Cherubino saved from polymorphous perversity…
Reborn unions litter the stage like happy endings:
Eros will have his day now Thanatos the trickster's
been sent packing — until tomorrow's matinée.