The Day Spring Came Early

Golden light sprawls from our feet

like the sun’s roots as we walk in the morning,

while the air is still rubbing sleep from its eyes

and blooming trees push out their leaves

to adjust to the undue brightness.

 

Seedlings of grass burst with joy

from our chest and laugh with us

as they break the permafrost

to spread sunlight through the soil.

 

Glory. O! Glorious exultation is the air

that fills our lungs: fresh cut grass glued

to the skin by sweet smelling sweat

spent for the glory of another.

 

O! how tumultuous is the song of selfless Spring;

sung by sparrows, beeches and our browning skin!

I Am Passion

I am passion, not merely passionate;

I was created a god, and a muse,

inspiring the spruce to be evergreen,

the snow to fly, the swallow to sing.

It was for me that Divinity died,

and glorified my race to its proper place:

Sons and Daughters of eternal light.

This place realized, I am resolute;

I am passion because of the value

placed on me by the fact that I am,

and thus I conquer the air and command

spirits, which flee from or bow to my self.

A draught more dense than blood swells

            in my heart

into my veins and I am invincible.

I am eternal, as an enchanted

pool is eternal – forever poured into

by a cascade greater than itself.

I will go forth to the east, and the west;

the north will be unveiled; the south:

            discovered;

and thus discovered, they will be made

            whole.

In my presence they will jovially

exult, and give glory to that waterfall

by which my soul is fed, and made content.

Look, and see! Because this is me, myself,

my soul, that depth, bared in ferocity.

And so I raise my fist as I would a sword,

But far greater weapons are my knuckles

and skin, and so I shake them at the wind

and snicker in adversity’s midst –

thereby sharing in my Creator’s plight.

Hamartia

When the first morning beams
alight on my window panes
I feel my coarse humanity
like charcoal. Empty. Light.
I’m broken by careless hands;
malice makes an end of me:
Weakness defines my porous
frame.

The morning grows wiser,
I submerge myself
in divinity,
like streams of silver
coursing through my frail
veins, and I am whole.

The deluge lasts for the day,
during which I bask in strength.
In the frigid night,
I return to my brittle state
and again seek divinity