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
