Mimesis Lost Returns in Time

You know who missed the party:
the Wiggleworts and Bottomburrows;
Bilbo didn’t call it out—
and Bilbo didn’t think about

the loss of memory and trace of time—
not a stage of lace with rhyme;
the mind of loss in the blink of time,
as time in memory loses its mime.

Mimes won’t mind the voiceless void
of words not spoken in the field of lime;
no river left over beds of time
will build the stone of thought outlined.

And crime won’t cry a mimetic sound;
no note that chimes resounds unheard—
mimicry was, and once, but now:
is dumb—
and we become a blinding sun.

Begun we gathered around hearth and stool
in mimesos of what was more than food,
and more than beer or bread with fat;
like butter thick and honey that drips—

and the party lines were out of rhyme
like ancient lands are out of mind—
where lines dissolve in blur of shade
and mimesis becomes the grey of glade

whose colour is lost, and so the names;
a garden of cheer with timeless names,
and all appear in lostless gaze,
and Bottomburrows— from hidden caves,

and last of all the Wiggleworts—
when mimeisthai speaks what leaves have heard,
and roots spring up and Bilbo appears
from Valinor’s sight with loads of tears.