Heart strings are too delicate and fine,
Too thick with gloves can fingers pluck.
Late afternoons see dark shadows linger,
Sweet silence lies upon a silent tongue that sucks.
Yet within storm of ages’ melancholy song,
Hides deeper meaning than the spirit knows,
Swells from sullen sigh to deeper rapture,
Only prelude of what is soon to flow.
Why not live into such depth of Being
That winter chill merely moves to thrill
Pulsing heart and dancing tremor—
Borrows peace from Peace on every hill.
We each know burdens heavy,
Yet also sense the hidden light
Illuminates world entire for greater seeing,
Quick as furry comet’s tail in winter’s night.