He has been one acquainted with the dark
And cold, the walks in rain across the hills,
The vagaries of friends. Now, foxes bark
Beneath the pallid moon. The little owls
Cry out from black, sharp-shadowed winter trees.
His embers fall to fire-dust, and his child,
Asleep and swaddled in his cradle, sees
A wordless flash of dream. The frozen world
At rest, however briefly, from its storms,
Consoles the man who bears his soul’s old pain
Not always as he ought. Tonight he warms
His own mind at the thought that, new again
In this new life that shares the silence with him,
He will find his remaking. He’ll erase
The ancient sorrow. Yes. The thin blue flame
That is himself will go up in a blaze
Of happiness at last. If such a thing
Exists at all, it’s here, and now, and this:
This one perfected instant, separate, shining.
The small owls call. The fallen embers hiss.
Dear Reader,
Can I be direct with you?
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But we can’t do it without readers like you.
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