Cathedral

a November poem

stars hang like blue flame

the sevenfold Spirit

at the feet of God

waits

in the stillness of snow

trees rise black and we

grate

our souls growing rough up against the cold

hate

of the earth that once kissed us those green sensual

days.

we watch the sky as the stars rain manna down

and it gathers on our skin, a pale sacred

gown

trees lose their copper curls, whist

wordless tonsure

winter Eucharist

shiver

this icy death

is too holy

we taste the black river

and we cower