3.19.2004

ST. GUILLEM AND THE SUNDIAL




The snow melts,
the weather clears,
fresh winds blow;
spring draws nigh.


The shadow of
this broken blade
(from my old sword)
melts too, each day.


Afternoon
unsheathing it,
in far-off woods
it melds with night.


*


By stony hills
I battled, once,
the bitter storms
of infidels.


But enmity,
venal delay
here tether me
against my will:


Jerusalem
remains afar,
captive yet
to useless war.


*


I am stilled
as this sundial.
As rusty swords
pursue my shade


into dark woods,
I’ll follow them
(blind pilgrim, so)
to vernal tomb.

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