The precious death wells up from depths below,
the sunshine of a thousand summers bright,
distilled in fluid blackness, and the glow
is from these deeps that guides my pen tonight.
For starlight leaves in darkness what is near;
the dancing worlds across the milky way
illuminate the season and the year,
but theirs is not the nearer light of day.
And so in darkest deeps we seek the sun,
to kindle freshly whensoe'er we choose.
Though stars their unchanged courses ever run,
we now select what rhythms we may use.
But this the price our our eternal day;
The further light of stars has gone away.
A sonnet for St. Benedict
5 days ago