In this month of the Holy Souls
we give prayer's fire
in the year's winding-sheets.
Like blood's response, sunset appears.
The streams that run into the valley's heart
begin to seize.
Like the rose taper
in the penitential wreath,
shouldered with the purple;
quiet as breath nocturnal
from an infant warmed with milk,
hope is patient, silent,
strongest where worlds of growth have ceased.