For Those Who Can Believe

Through history
There have been
Some that say
They can hear the planets move

For a moment
Gazing upon Saturn
In all his bold brilliance
Stark and outstanding
Amidst the winter’s darkness
… I thought I had too.

And I imagined the sound
Of the churning and grinding
of lead to be
reborn as gold
In the way the alchemist
Understand Saturn

Cronus will be overthrown
And Venus
shall emerge from the sea

She rises now
Out of the sea of darkness
Out of the long night
Of the passing year
With the delicate
Twinkling of small bells
And dainty icicles
For those who can
Sit and listen
For those who can
That all return to light and love.

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Upon White Wings

The morning climb
The sky broke…
Open, pierced with light
From the southern sky.

The northwest horizon
Billowed on
In rebellious plumes
of deep purple and grey
Swelling dark giants
unwilling to relent.

Caught in contrast,
In between​,
Was a most beautiful sea
of white gulls

So effortless
The ease by which
They rode the tumult
Of wind,
So agile
And weightless
Against the heavy sky,
That they
could be mistaken
As small pieces
Of loose paper
and free.

And then I knew
For truth
That secretly written
Upon their
Sun-bathed forms
Were the hopes
And prayers
Of many,
Onward and ever
delicately carried
white wings.

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What Choice is There but Gratitude

The darkness rises early
The still silence lingers
Hanging in the air
Half weighted by
The ever-swelling darkness
Half lightened by
the memory of day.

Faith in the sun’s return
does not chasten my discomforts.
Faith in the mysterious
Does not sway the cold.

The night swells in hours,
Day upon day,
Punctuating and piercing,
As too does
It’s still silence.

I sit with my breath
And feel its rise and fall.
I feel the biting cold
Set into my bones.
I feel the heavy dark
Sink and sit with me.

The night is long,
Still, silent,
And deeply dark.

What choice is there
But gratitude?

The stars,
All the more precious,
shine with greater brilliance.
The invaluable moon
Is ever present.
The whole sky knows its light.

The morning star
Fails to rise
With uncountable eons
Of vigil offerings
Of hope, prayers,
And love.

The altar candle
Is lit.
Another precious
Soul has parted.

What choice is there
But gratitude?

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