In the darkling garden
a lone bird drops
liquid notes like dark blood
beneath the quiet trees. And then
silence. And in the silence
the old struggle surges
as flesh and soul pull
apart. The body aches
to be the prayer, to feel
the God’s warmth
in the darkness. But
there is only stillness
and the blood’s song
and the everlasting longing
as somewhere far away
innocence sleeps.
©C.M.M. 04/11
