Wait, when you wish with the tigers so wet
to swim with the sure sweet strokes of the sun
that streak down soft as a song when they set;
with the sleek stripes of fire in the sky you will run,
you will run, but not yet, oh my pet, you must wait.
Wait, while the snow melts like stars streaking down,
silently now in the light-drenched rain;
plant yourself deep in the velvety brown
decaying of leaves 'til the pure and the plain
light of truth will sprout green, inexplicable, sure--
until then, oh my child, you must wait.
A sonnet for St. Benedict
5 days ago