That someday,
at the close of this fierce vision
I may sing praise and jubilation to assenting angels!
That my heart's clear-striking hammers won't fail
to sound from landing on slack, doubtful or broken strings!
That my streaming face might make me more radiant
That my humble weeping might bloom.
Oh, nights that I weeped through, how much you will mean
to me then. Disconsolate sisters, why did I not kneel
more fervently, bending to receive you, and lose myself more
in your loosened hair?
How we squander our sorrows,
gazing beyond them into the sad wastes of duration
to see if they have an end.
But they are our winter foliage,
our dark evergreens,
one of the seasons of our interior year,
-and not only season,
but place,
settlement,
lair,
soil,
home.
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