With Joy --

templates, these, that

shine, here; we

have our Gloves

to protect

Us but we are Sullied with Sin -- Why

should we Try

when all around us is barren, timed

for a sudden Demise?

Can we hold Her there, in the Light, with

her hands held out, young

Mother

of a quiet Child? -- Who

will

teach her soothing Lullabies?

Of what Use is her Instruction? -- She,

there, Covered

with Leaves,

dances in the Wind -- She

sees a Friend

in the Sun that warms her: She

confides

in the Earth for her Revival; She

knows

nothing of Princes and Princesses -- She

has her own God who she will only Share

with her intimate Advisors -- She

and her friends

carve their names in the bark

and wish for brothers and sisters

to come join them; -- here they

will circle

the Maypole with childlike cries of Hope

and elation;

emergent

beings conceived in

Ceremonial Gold; have

we Grown?

Are we older now than we should be? Have

we Seen enough not to know better?

We struggle with the plow, churning the

rock-studded earth, hoping

for a fruitful Season, our dry years lingering

on . . . From famine

Fortune comes, we

believe -- We come

to God

as Joseph's brothers

came to him

seeking Solace -- It is

here we will Rest, hands

crossed

in ritual submission -- Attendant

and Alive --

*