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