Monday, November 24, 2014

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.

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