The altar of the great cathedral
brings indoors something of the majesty
of the open sky, as the architect
lifts the eyes of all from the altar
to the wide beauty and precision
of the ceiling, jeweler’s art ...
VASE OF ROSES
The sunrise burned so bright behind
and within the mists of daybreak as
to overspill a radiance across the long
curve of horizon, broken by the dark line
of trees above the lake, reflected back
into the ...
Should one happen upon the darkness
with confidence, in familiar circumstance,
there will be no place for emptiness,
for heartfelt fear of loss from the old
bones of imagination never fully
laid to rest. Instead, the darkness, ...
Young men and cars offer
the joy of coming of age
with the risks of tragedy.
There is the monstrous injustice
of the death, banal statistical
references, and life goes on.
And the loss goes on. It does not end.
Tenderness does not arise from
the beauty and motion of the dark clouds,
of the rain, or its passing,
or the air, purged in a breeze,
slight but apparent, drifting
from the direction of the rain.
It comes from a ...
To conceive of the weave of the dark
is to lift forward the cloth
with a texture of silk, or wool, or nothing,
melting into the air, where the mind
is forever pulling for the edge, finding none,
or by ...
FOLDS OF LIGHT
The gentle folds within the flower
of the lily, the gentle look of
the folds of the robes of the Pietà,
flower of a few days, or the stone
of centuries, as each comes first to
The inner light grandeur of the cathedral,
muted but still present, even on cloudy days;
its immensity, its echoes, silence,
its music, shifting uplift of daylight,
its faithful, its tourists, clergy, its
pattern of life; deliberately, artfully
distinct from ...
Modest as mountains go, they have a charm
in that close-to-home majesty, surmounted
by a spine of falling away bald rock,
dangerous as any siren song of
explorer’s imagining, with plenty
of room for the solitude of ...
As one comes upon the last days of autumn,
after the long rain that brings down the old leaves,
the sky dark, and brooding, the harvest in,
and its moon, passed, All Hallow’s Eve, and the
holy day itself, ...
Face framed with a few
lonely wisps of gray,
the dark haired lady
suggested gently, over coffee,
to the young mother,
bone weary, with a babe
who had cried through the night,
but now slept, as the mother