Poetry

One of my side projects…

The bead counters number less and less
On Sunday mornings, I would confess
A longing for the summer sun. Its light
On green gilded boughs encountered
We mark the seasons turn from green to gold
While rays, and leaves, and snow fall amongst us.

And when it all is done, it starts again
There is no death knell rung for nature’s end
Before the robin’s carillon call is sung
Again. For beauty is in eternity
And the memento mori of a leafless tree
Serves to remind us of the fruits to come
A spotless apple and a perfect plum
Dripping in a sun-tipped Tuscan dawn.

For in that ancient sacrifice is life,
Post-mortem, more eternal than summer’s day
In the even pulse of neume to neume
Beats the heart and breathes the lung of body
Resurrected. There is no beatification of
Death. No praise of this darkened end.
For there will be no end of Sunday morn
As the psalms are sung for eternal dawn. 

See here for some context.

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