Looking westward through the porch screen,

White light from the full moon shivers

On snow crust, on glaze over fields.

The silvered-seconds, the whited-minutes,

The wind-chimes euphony, the wavy-warped drifts,

The attempt to capture potential in the rising moon

Is, I know, the beginning of composition....




Maybe it is like the act of tipping the head back,

Eyes rising, tracing the pale-pearl flush overhead,

Untouched, skeletal, almost fibrous in its network

Across the sky of dark-blue drape, an eternal law

That promises what with grace we must become:

Marginal angels, immortal transience, fresh tracing

A lost beginning grafted to God’s sweetest words.


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Published in the December 6, 2013 issue: View Contents
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