All that we took in
We now give back
And place it not lightly on the world
A child, a name, a star,
This, our first real metaphor
From love to flesh
That same winter the walls
Glistened, the slow globes
Were mapped by lamp and stove
The dampwood sang sad songs
And your hair did not laugh anymore.
And folded in amongst yourselves
In spheres of pure preflection
Her cells grew to that song In the key of change and sacrifice.
Lines hover between the seasons
The ring of summers in axed-felled wood
Are thinner than the ripening fruit
The child dreams more dreams than lives
The poet pens
The lifelines meet
The fire circumscribes.
In the Voices of Children Waking
They are waking now
Children of my thoughts
The taste of bitter dreams drunk
In all their wild youthful sleep.
Water splashing on a face
Furniture removed from its rightful place
In the voices of children waking
There is a song below growing old:
The world is a toy for these thoughts of yet and never.
Irish Chant for Naomi
The rain and sleet rattle at our window,
The same rattle in the child's throat,
The so human shaking at death's door,
Young light of a life hardly spent.
Why tonight is your face grown old?
Why the skin so hot and the room so cold?
The very earth seems to move, or is it just this cabin floor
Creaking in the last north wind of winter?
And if all there is to death is a past
What future can mend the bones of today,
hope can seal the fevers of tomorrow?
Children of darkness, child in this hour,
Feed on this candlelight, recover this power:
Bring us your deliverance through your suffering gaze,
Find the strength that is stolen from this page.