O dear page, waiting and empty,

could there be a day better suited

to the recollections of a soul, overripe and

forgetting its light? Those things that once were

a willing fountain of refreshment have become

the sublimations of tired whimsy.

Sparrows only frolic where there is the bidding

of happy water, the promise of baptismal song;

the welcome of Maundy-feet in shared coolness.

When pools freeze over they are

fit for nothing more than a crystalline table

for airborne detritus, the gleanings of

the woeful. It mirrors itself, parody of warmer times,

more reflective but less refreshing.

Let no more the satisfactions otherwise suitable

to the salubrious spirit be hidden among

mournful weeds of forgotten bounty.

Rich the soil into which dreams are buried.

Light the step of the grace begotten.

Still are the waves of the undying.

Yet we call this to mind and

therefore have we hope…

Photo by Stephen Elliott