Sublunary Sundays

Still branches are still cradling shadows

and sunsets once were never quiet as this.

New stars to be bright as the old stars.

Moon rising without a found desire.

                    *

A common age buried in the hidden rings

of the trees, years from confluent motion,

distant oceans, and is this snow in the wind

circling about every solitude of evening.

                    *

Tone from the vaults of the bell tower

reflecting oracular windows- a murder

of crows that passes in flight- superstitiously

day's ransom stretches an empty hand.

                    *

Words on the space of loose thought torn

from the trembled skin of cold winter air. 

An agreement both clinical and profane

with the salt that bled for stained glass. 

                    *

Time's flow absolves the regular stones,

sanguine hours solve through icy blue,

continual melody mends what is broken,

a memorable sky sung with benevolence.

                    *

Telluric sound never kept, nor elsewhere.

Voice acquiring form carried by a whisper.

Comfort in the thought of acceptance only

as an obvious secret spoken but little.

                    *

Harbor rest, it is said, balance an interior

drawn from amber's cloistered temperature.

This world of perpetual outcome deepened

with an excess of decisions left undecided.  

                    *

Night now buried in the throat of an owl

while new light traces ascending morning,

where the body lives always within a place

momentarily like the infinity of an echo.