we open these windows
to steal a little light into the world,
fearing shadows that have disappeared.
we must find new windows
and meditate upon the signing
of illumination,
the language of perception
discerned in the tattoo
beat between fire and stone.
the golden glow of our achievement
must match the withdrawal of the sun
and the richness of the gift
must induce its return.
old soil must lie fallow.

a time that abounds with fruit and seed
that measures what we remember
against what we record.
day and night, crystal and glass,
light fluted through festive wines
pressed in the family cellar.
drink and feel the grass sleep,
pastures dream between nude trees.
drink and caress your aching womb,
feel it fill with new light.
call forth a new god.
remake it as you remember it,
what it was before.
describe it, invent it, bind it,
let it supplant the endless waiting
that is a child’s time.
when you can wait no more,
the wait you have learnt to endure,
and cherish;

listen to the song sung
by a sparrow that has found
a kernel of corn in the snow.