Byzantium or high Armenia

SPRUNG RITE

Light snow cascades into December dusk.

Each flake a brief memento

of infinity.  Drifting so

far... from a distant world.  Ask

& it shall be given unto you,

intones the snowy-mantled

priest (Byzantium,

or high Armenia).  So the seed grew

amid its granary of full, deep faith.

Here in Minneapolis,

first snow is ceremonious.

A sanctification for the dying earth,

a last light blessing to the forehead

of a fading year.  I think

of Roger, leaning at the brink

of the Terrace... one hand lifted

floating over Providence spread out below

& miming his canoe’s prow –

an equilibrium of high & low,

of holy & mundane (Jonah-Hobo).

& Henry, tilting on the pivot-point

of Berryman’s rail (Washington)

is rescued from oblivion

by a mustard seed of restoration... faint

hexagon of gold sky-fire, transfiguring

the babble of his broken tongue

to chaste vision – sprung

rite from Ravenna (almond wing).

12.1.19