That someday at the close of this fierce vision
I might sing praise and jubilation to assenting angels.
That the heart's clear-striking hammers might not falter
from landing on slack or doubtful or snapping strings.
That my face, streaming might make me more radiant
that this homely weeping might bloom.
Oh you nights
that I grieved through how much you will mean to me then.
Disconsolate sisters why didn't I kneel more fully
to accept you and lose myself more in your loosened hair?
How we squander our sorrows gazing beyond them into the
sad wastes of duration to see if maybe they have a limit.
sad wastes of duration to see if maybe they have a limit.
But they are our winter foliage our dark evergreens
one of the seasons of our secret year -
and not only a season
they are situation, settlement, lair, soil, home.
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