In the inland glen wakes the dawn-dove. We must try

I said to the almond tree, “Sister, speak to me of God.” And the almond tree blossomed. – Nikos Kazantzakis

Facing the cold, spitting a spume Of cold air from my chapped mouth, I am here, at the bottom Of this hill, watching the soul

Wrestle with the angle at nightfall. The sun had gone before on it’s Westerly route hidden on the other side, Beyond the spikes of ashen oaks

And last faint call of birds. Why are you so silent, O Supposedly Intimate, even in stray dreams? What is the price for entering grace?

The body, joyless unlike Sister Almond Tree, continues to chew On this dry bread of imaginings. I am shaking it, a rattle bag.

Listen to its wail, read these Dim jottings my soul – so little Light, so much smoke – leaves On these rotting leaves underfoot.

Teach me, now more stone Less man, your unheard song, So that I can again love so well, That I may believe, in the end, in You.